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ALBERT  BIG E LOW  PMNE 


UNIVERSITY    OP 
CALIFORNIA 


Cent  Btoellens 


"vP    '   - 

"  He  was  swearing  steadily  and  I  think   still   blaming  me  for 
most  of  his  troubles." — Page  83. 


THE  TENT 
DWELLERS 

BY 

ALBERT    B1GELOW    PAINE 

Author  of  "The  Pan  Dwellers,"  "The  Lucky  Piece"  etc. 
WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BT  HT.    WATSON 


NEW  YORK 

THE  OUTING  PUBLISHING  CO. 

MCMVIII 


COPYRIGHT,   1908,  BY 
THE  OUTING  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 


Entered  at  Stationers'   Hall,  London,  England 


All  rights  reserved 


to  Chapter 

jy  Come,  shape  your  plans  where  the  fire  is  bright, 

And  the  shimmering  glasses  are — 
When  the  woods  are  white  in  the  winter's  night, 
>  Under  the  northern  star. 


M844855 


toeller* 


Chapter  0m 

IT  was  during  the  holiday  week  that  Eddie  pro 
posed  the  matter.  That  is  Eddie's  way.  No 
date,  for  him,  is  too  far  ahead  to  begin  to  plan 
anything  that  has  vari-colored  flies  in  it,  and  tents, 
and  the  prospect  of  the  campfire  smell.  The  very 
mention  of  these  things  will  make  his  hair  bristle  up 
(rather  straight,  stiff  hair  it  is  and  silvered  over 
with  premature  wisdom)  and  put  a  new  glare  into  his 
spectacles  (rather  wide,  round  spectacles  they  are) 
until  he  looks  even  more  like  an  anarchist  than 
usual — more  indeed  than  in  the  old  Heidelberg  days, 
when,  as  a  matter  of  truth,  he  is  a  gentle  soul;  some 
times,  when  he  has  transgressed,  or  thinks  he  has, 
almost  humble. 

As  I  was  saying,  it  was  during  the  holidays — about 
the  end  of  the  week,  as  I  remember  it — and  I  was 
writing  some  letters  at  the  club  in  the  little  raised 
corner  that  looks  out  on  the  park,  when  I  happened 
to  glance  down  toward  the  fireplace,  and  saw  Eddie 
sitting  as  nearly  on  his  coat  collar  as  possible,  in  one 
of  the  wide  chairs,  and  as  nearly  in  the  open  hickory 

3 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


fire  as  he  could  get,  pawing  over  a  book  of  Silver 
Doctors,  Brown  Hackles  and  the  like,  and  dreaming 
a  long,  long  dream. 

Now,  I  confess  there  is  something  about  a  book  of 
trout  flies,  even  at  the  year's  end,  when  all  the  brooks 
are  flint  and  gorged  with  white,  when  all  the  north 
country  hides  under  seamless  raiment  that  stretches 
even  to  the  Pole  itself — even  at  such  a  time,  I  say, 
there  is  something  about  those  bits  of  gimp,  and  gut, 
and  feathers,  and  steel,  that  prick  up  the  red  blood 
of  any  man — or  of  any  woman,  for  that  matter — 
who  has  ever  flung  one  of  those  gaudy  things  into  a 
swirl  of  dark  water,  and  felt  the  swift,  savage  tug  on 
the  line  and  heard  the  music  of  the  singing  reel. 

I  forgot  that  I  was  writing  letters  and  went  over 
there. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  Eddie,"  I  said.  "  Where  are 
you  going,  this  time?  " 

Then  he  unfolded  to  me  a  marvelous  plan.  It  was 
a  place  in  Nova  Scotia — he  had  been  there  once  before, 
only,  this  time  he  was  going  a  different  route,  farther 
into  the  wilderness,  the  deep  unknown,  somewhere 
even  the  guides  had  never  been.  Perhaps  stray 
logmen  had  been  there,  or  the  Indians;  sportsmen 
never.  There  had  been  no  complete  surveys,  even 
by  the  government.  Certain  rivers  were  known  by 
their  outlets,  certain  lakes  by  name.  It  was  likely 
that  they  formed  the  usual  network  and  that  the  cir 
cuit  could  be  made  by  water,  with  occasional  carries. 

4 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


Unquestionably  the  waters  swarmed  with  trout.  A 
certain  imaginative  Indian,  supposed  to  have  pene 
trated  the  unknown,  had  declared  that  at  one  place 
were  trout  the  size  of  one's  leg. 

Eddie  became  excited  as  he  talked  and  his  hair 
bristled.  He  set  down  a  list  of  the  waters  so  far  as 
known,  the  names  of  certain  guides,  a  number  of  arti 
cles  of  provision  and  an  array  of  camp  paraphernalia. 
Finally  he  made  maps  and  other  drawings  and  began 
to  add  figures.  It  was  dusk  when  we  got  back.  The 
lights  were  winking  along  the  park  over  the  way, 
and  somewhere  through  the  night,  across  a  waste  of 
cold,  lay  the  land  we  had  visited,  still  waiting  to  be 
explored.  We  wandered  out  into  the  dining  room 
and  settled  the  matter  across  a  table.  When  we  rose 
from  it,  I  was  pledged — pledged  for  June;  and  this 
was  still  December,  the  tail  of  the  old  year. 


Cimpter 

And  let  us  buy  for  the  days  of  spring, 
While  yet  the  north  winds  blow! 

For  half  the  joy  of  the  trip,  my  boy, 
Is  getting  your  traps  to  go. 


Chapter 

IMMEDIATELY  we,  that  is  to  say,  Eddie, 
began  to  buy  things.  It  is  Eddie's  way  to  read 
text-books  and  to  consult  catalogues  with  a  view 
of  making  a  variety  of  purchases.  He  has  had  a 
great  deal  of  experience  in  the  matter  of  camp  life, 
but  being  a  modest  man  he  has  a  fund  of  respect  for 
the  experience  of  others.  Any  one  who  has  had 
enough  ability,  or  time,  to  write  a  book  on  the  sub 
ject,  and  enough  perseverance,  or  money,  to  get  it 
published,  can  preach  the  gospel  of  the  woods  to 
Eddie  in  the  matter  of  camp  appointments;  and  even 
the  manufacturers'  catalogues  are  considered  sound 
reading.  As  a  result,  he  has  accumulated  an  amazing 
collection  of  articles,  adapted  to  every  time  and  sea 
son,  to  every  change  of  wind  and  temperature,  to 
every  spot  where  the  tent  gleams  white  in  the  camp- 
fire's  blaze,  from  Greenland's  icy  mountains  to  India's 
coral  strand.  Far  be  it  from  me  to  deride  or  depre 
cate  this  tendency,  even  though  it  were  a  ruling  pas 
sion.  There  are  days,  and  nights,  too,  recalled  now 
with  only  a  heart  full  of  gratitude  because  of  Eddie's 
almost  inexhaustible  storehouse  of  comforts  for  soul 
and  flesh — the  direct  result  of  those  text-books  and 
those  catalogues,  and  of  the  wild,  sweet  joy  he  always 

9 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


found  in  making  lists  and  laying  in  supplies.  Not 
having  a  turn  that  way,  myself,  he  had  but  small 
respect  for  my  ideas  of  woodcraft  and  laid  down  the 
law  of  the  forest  to  me  with  a  firm  hand.  When  I 
hinted  that  I  should  need  a  new  lancewood  rod,  he 
promptly  annulled  the  thought.  When  I  suggested 
that  I  might  aspire  as  far  as  a  rather  good  split  bam 
boo,  of  a  light  but  serviceable  kind,  he  dispelled  the 
ambition  forthwith. 

"  You  want  a  noibwood,"  he  said.  "  I  have  just 
ordered  one,  and  I  will  take  you  to  the  same  place 
to  get  it." 

I  had  never  heard  of  this  particular  variety  of  tim 
ber,  and  it  seemed  that  Eddie  had  never  heard  of  it, 
either,  except  in  a  catalogue  and  from  the  lips  of  a 
dealer  who  had  imported  a  considerable  amount  of 
the  material.  Yet  I  went  along,  meekly  enough,  and 
ordered  under  his  direction.  I  also  selected  an  assort 
ment  of  flies — the  prettiest  he  would  let  me  buy.  A 
few  others  which  I  had  set  my  heart  on  I  had  the 
dealer  slip  in  when  Eddie  wasn't  looking.  I  was 
about  to  buy  a  curious  thing  which  a  trout  could  not 
come  near  without  fatal  results,  when  the  wide  glare 
of  his  spectacles  rested  on  me  and  my  courage  failed. 
Then  he  selected  for  me  a  long  landing  net,  for  use 
in  the  canoe,  and  another  with  an  elastic  loop  to  go 
about  the  neck,  for  wading;  leaders  and  leader-boxes 
and  the  other  elementary  necessaries  of  angling  in 
the  northern  woods.  Of  course  such  things  were  as, 

10 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


A,  B,  C  to  Eddie.  He  had  them  in  infinite  variety, 
but  it  was  a  field  day  and  he  bought  more.  We 
were  out  of  the  place  at  last,  and  I  was  heaving  a 
sigh  of  relief  that  this  part  of  it  was  over  and  I  need 
give  the  matter  no  further  thought,  when  Eddie 
remarked : 

"  Well,  we've  made  a  pretty  good  start.  We  can 
come  down  here  a  lot  of  times  between  now  and 
June." 

"But  what  for?"  I  asked. 

"  Oh,  for  things.  You  haven't  a  sleeping  bag  yet, 
and  we'll  be  thinking  of  other  stuff  right  along.  We 
can  stay  over  a  day  in  Boston,  too,  and  get  some 
things  there.  I  always  do  that.  You  want  a  good 
many  things.  You  can't  get  them  in  the  woods,  you 
know." 

Eddie  was  right  about  having  plenty  of  time,  for 
this  was  January.  He  was  wrong,  however,  about 
being  unable  to  get  things  in  the  woods.  I  did,  often. 
I  got  Eddie's. 


12 


Chapter  Cfjree 

Now  the  gorges  break  and  the  streamlets  wake 

And  the  sap  begins  to  flow, 
And  each  green  bud  that  stirs  my  blood 

Is  a  summons,  and  I  must  go. 


Cfjapter 

EDDIE  could  not  wait  until  June.  When  the 
earliest  April  buds  became  tiny,  pale-green 
beads — that  green  which  is  like  the  green  of 
no  other  substance  or  season — along  certain  gray 
branches  in  the  park  across  the  way,  when  there  was 
a  hint  and  flavor  of  stirring  life  in  the  morning  sun, 
then  there  came  a  new  bristle  into  Eddie's  hair,  a 
new  gleam  into  his  glasses,  and  I  felt  that  the  wood 
gods  were  calling,  and  that  he  must  obey. 

"  It  is  proper  that  one  of  us  should  go  on  ahead," 
he  argued,  "  and  be  arranging  for  guides,  canoes  and 
the  like  at  the  other  end." 

I  urged  that  it  was  too  soon — that  the  North 
was  still  white  and  hard  with  cold — that  preliminaries 
could  be  arranged  by  letter.  I  finally  suggested  that 
there  were  still  many  things  he  would  want  to  buy. 
He  wavered  then,  but  it  was  no  use.  Eddie  can  put 
on  a  dinner  dress  with  the  best  and  he  has  dined 
with  kings.  But  he  is  a  cave-,  a  cliff-  and  a  tree- 
dweller  in  his  soul  and  the  gods  of  his  ancestors  were 
not  to  be  gainsaid.  He  must  be  on  the  ground,  he 
declared,  and  as  for  the  additional  articles  we  might 
need,  he  would  send  me  lists.  Of  course,  I  knew  he 
would  do  that,  just  as  I  knew  that  the  one  and  mighty 

15 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


reason  for  his  going  was  to  be  where  he  could  smell 
the  first  breath  of  the  budding  North  and  catch  the 
first  flash  and  gleam  of  the  waking  trout  in  the  nearby 
waters. 

He  was  off,  then,  and  the  lists  came  as  promised. 
I  employed  a  sort  of  general  purchasing  agent  at 
length  to  attend  to  them,  though  this  I  dared  not 
confess,  for  to  Eddie  it  would  have  been  a  sacrilege 
not  easy  to  forgive.  That  I  could  delegate  to  another 
any  of  the  precious  pleasure  of  preparation,  and 
reduce  the  sacred  functions  of  securing  certain  brands 
of  eating  chocolate,  camp  candles,  and  boot  grease 
(three  kinds)  to  a  commercial  basis,  would,  I  felt, 
be  a  thing  almost  impossible  to  explain.  The  final 
list,  he  notified  me,  would  be  mailed  to  a  hotel  in 
Boston,  for  the  reason,  he  said,  that  it  contained 
things  nowhere  else  procurable;  though  I  am  con 
vinced  that  a  greater  reason  was  a  conviction  on  his 
part  that  no  trip  could  be  complete  without  buying 
a  few  articles  in  Boston  at  the  last  hour  before  sail 
ing,  and  his  desire  for  me  to  experience  this  con 
cluding  touch  of  the  joy  of  preparation.  Yet  I  was 
glad,  on  the  whole,  for  I  was  able  to  buy  secretly 
some  things  he  never  would  have  permitted — among 
them  a  phantom  minnow  which  looked  like  a  tin 
whistle,  a  little  four-ounce  bamboo  rod,  and  a  gor 
geous  Jock  Scott  fly  with  two  hooks.  The  tin  whistle 
and  the  Jock  Scott  looked  deadly,  and  the  rod  seemed 
adapted  to  a  certain  repose  of  muscle  after  a  period 

16 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


of  activity  with  the  noibwood.  I  decided  to  conceal 
these  purchases  about  my  person  and  use  them  when 
Eddie  wasn't  looking. 

But  then  it  was  sailing  time,  and  as  the  short-nosed 
energetic  steamer  dropped  away  from  the  dock,  a 
storm  (there  had  been  none  for  weeks  before)  set 
in,  and  we  pitched  and  rolled,  and  through  a  dim 
disordered  night  I  clung  to  my  berth  and  groaned, 
and  stared  at  my  things  in  the  corner  and  hated  them 
according  to  my  condition.  Then  morning  brought 
quiet  waters  and  the  custom  house  at  Yarmouth,  where 
the  tourist  who  is  bringing  in  money,  and  maybe  a 
few  other  things,  is  made  duly  welcome  and  not  both 
ered  with  a  lot  of  irrelevant  questions.  What  Nova 
Scotia  most  needs  is  money,  and  the  fisherman  and 
the  hunter,  once  through  the  custom  house,  become 
a  greater  source  of  revenue  than  any  tax  that  could 
be  laid  on  their  modest,  not  to  say  paltry,  baggage, 
even  though  the  contents  of  one's  trunk  be  the  result 
of  a  list  such  as  only  Eddie  can  prepare.  There  is  a 
wholesome  restaurant  at  Yarmouth,  too,  just  by  the 
dock,  where  after  a  tossing  night  at  sea  one  welcomes 
a  breakfast  of  good  salt  ham,  with  eggs,  and  pie — 
two  kinds  of  the  latter,  pumpkin  and  mince. 

I  had  always  wondered  where  the  pie-belt  went, 
after  it  reached  Boston.  Now  I  know  that  it  extends 
across  to  Yarmouth  and  so  continues  up  through 
Nova  Scotia  to  Halifax.  Certain  New  Englanders 
more  than  a  hundred  years  ago,  "  went  down  to  Nova 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


Scotia,"  for  the  reason  that  they  fostered  a  deeper 
affection  for  George,  the  King,  than  for  George  of 
the  Cherry  Tree  and  Hatchet.  The  cherry  limb 
became  too  vigorous  in  their  old  homes  and  the 
hatchet  too  sharp,  so  they  crossed  over  and  took  the 
end  of  the  pie-belt  along.  They  maintained  their 
general  habits  and  speech,  too,  which  in  Nova  Scotia 
to-day  are  almost  identical  with  those  of  New  Eng 
land.  But  I  digress — a  grave  and  besetting  sin. 

I  had  hoped  Eddie  would  welcome  me  at  the  rail 
way  station  after  the  long  forenoon's  ride — rather 
lonely,  in  spite  of  the  new  land  and  the  fact  that  I 
made  the  acquaintance  of  a  fisherman  who  taught  me 
how  to  put  wrappings  on  a  rod.  Eddie  did  not  meet 
me.  He  sent  the  wagon,  instead,  and  I  enjoyed  a 
fifteen-mile  ride  across  June  hills  where  apple  blos 
soms  were  white,  with  glimpses  of  lake  and  stream 
here  and  there;  through  woods  that  were  a  promise 
of  the  wilderness  to  come;  by  fields  so  thickly  studded 
with  bowlders  that  one  to  plant  them  must  use  drill 
and  dynamite,  getting  my  first  impression  of  the  inte 
rior  of  Nova  Scotia  alone.  Then  at  last  came  a 
church,  a  scattering  string  of  houses,  a  vista  of  lakes, 
a  neat  white  hotel  and  the  edge  of  the  wilderness  had 
been  reached.  On  the  hotel  steps  a  curious,  hairy, 
wild-looking  figure  was  capering  about — doing  a  sort 
of  savage  dance — perhaps  as  a  preparation  for  war. 
At  first  I  made  it  out  to  be  a  counterpart  of  pictures 
I  had  seen  of  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his  desert  island. 

18 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


Then  I  discovered  that  it  wore  wide  spectacles  and 
these  in  the  fading  sunlight  sent  forth  a  familiar  glare. 
So  it  was  Eddie,  after  all,  and  no  edged  tool  had 
touched  hair  or  beard  since  April.  I  understood, 
now,  why  he  had  not  met  me  at  the  station. 


Chapter  Jfour 

Now,  the  day  is  at  hand,  prepare,  prepare — 
Make  ready  the  boots  and  creel, 

And  the  rod  so  new  and  the  fly-book,  too, 
The  line  and  the  singing  reel. 


Cfwpter  Jfour 

EDDIE'S  room  and  contents,  with  Eddie  in  the 
midst  of  them,  was  a  marvel  and  a  revelation. 
All  the  accouterments  of  former  expeditions 
of  whatever  sort,  all  that  he  had  bought  for  this  one, 
all  that  I  had  shipped  from  week  to  week,  were  gath 
ered  there.  There  were  wading  boots  and  camp 
boots  and  moccasins  and  Dutch  bed-slippers  and  shoe- 
packs — the  last-named  a  sort  of  Micmac  Indian  cross 
between  a  shoe  and  a  moccasin,  much  affected  by 
guides,  who  keep  them  saturated  with  oil  and  wear 
them  in  the  water  and  out — there  were  nets  of  various 
sizes  and  sorts,  from  large  minnow  nets  through  a 
line  of  landing  nets  to  some  silk  head  nets,  invented 
and  made  by  Eddie  himself,  one  for  each  of  us,  to 
pull  on  day  or  night  when  the  insect  pests  were  bad. 
There  was  a  quantity  of  self-prepared  ointment,  too, 
for  the  same  purpose,  while  of  sovereign  remedies, 
balms  and  anodynes  for  ills  and  misfortunes,  Eddie's 
collection  was  as  the  sands  of  the  sea.  Soothing 
lotions  there  were  for  wounds  new  and  old;  easing 
draughts  for  pains  internal  and  external ;  magic  salves 
such  as  were  used  by  the  knights  of  old  romance, 
Amadis  de  Gaul  and  others,  for  the  instant  cure  of 
ghastly  lacerations  made  by  man  or  beast,  and  a  large 

23 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


fresh  bottle  of  a  collodion  preparation  with  which  the 
victim  could  be  painted  locally  or  in  general,  and  stand 
forth  at  last,  good  as  new — restored,  body,  bones 
and  skin.  In  addition  there  was  a  certain  bottle  of 
the  fluid  extract  of  gelsemium,  or  something  like  that, 
which  was  recommended  for  anything  that  the  rest 
of  the  assortment  could  do,  combined.  It  was -said 
to  be  good  for  everything  from  a  sore  throat  to  a 
snake  bite — the  list  of  its  benefits  being  recorded  in 
a  text-book  by  which  Eddie  set  great  store. 

"  Take  it,  by  all  means,  Eddie,"  I  said,  "  then 
you  won't  need  any  of  the  others." 

That  settled  it.    The  gelsemium  was  left  behind. 

I  was  interested  in  Eddie's  rods,  leaning  here  and 
there  on  various  parcels  about  the  room.  I  found 
that  the  new  noibwood,  such  as  I  had  ordered,  was 
only  a  unit  in  a  very  respectable  aggregate — rather  an 
unimportant  unit  it  appeared  by  this  time,  for  Eddie 
calmly  assured  me  that  the  tip  had  remained  set  after 
landing  a  rather  small  trout  in  a  nearby  stream  and 
that  he  did  not  consider  the  wood  altogether  suitable 
for  trout  rods.  Whereupon  I  was  moved  to  confess 
the  little  bamboo  stick  I  had  bought  in  Boston,  and 
produced  it  for  inspection.  I  could  see  that  Eddie 
bristled  a  bit  as  I  uncased  it  and  I  think  viewed  it 
and  wiggled  it  with  rather  small  respect.  Still,  he 
did  not  condemn  it  utterly  and  I  had  an  impulse  to 
confess  the  other  things,  the  impossible  little  scale- 
wing  flies,  the  tin  whistle  and  the  Jock  Scott  with 

24 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


two  hooks.  However,  it  did  not  seem  just  the  psycho 
logical  moment,  and  I  refrained. 

As  for  Eddie's  flies,  viewed  together,  they  were  a 
dazzling  lot.  There  were  books  and  books  of  them — 
American,  English,  Scotch  and  what  not.  There  was 
one  book  of  English  dry-flies,  procured  during  a 
recent  sojourn  abroad,  to  be  tried  in  American  waters. 
One  does  not  dance  and  jiggle  a  dry-fly  to  give  it  the 
appearance  of  life — of  some  unusual  creature  with 
rainbow  wings  and  the  ability  to  wriggle  upstream, 
even  against  a  swift  current.  The  dry-fly  is  built  to 
resemble  life  itself,  color,  shape  and  all,  and  is  cast 
on  a  slow-moving  stream  where  a  trout  is  seen  to  rise, 
and  allowed  to  drift  with  the  gently  flowing  current 
exactly  over  the  magic  spot.  All  this  Eddie  explained 
to  me  and  let  me  hold  the  book  a  little  time,  though 
I  could  see  he  did  not  intend  to  let  me  use  one  of 
the  precious  things,  and  would  prefer  that  I  did  not 
touch  them. 

He  was  packing  now  and  I  wandered  idly  about 
this  uncatalogued  museum,  of  sporting  goods.  There 
was  a  heap  of  canvas  and  blankets  in  one  corner — 
a  sleeping  bag,  it  proved,  with  an  infinite  number  of 
compartments,  or  layers;  there  were  hats  of  many 
shapes,  vests  of  many  fabrics,  coats  of  many  colors. 
There  were  things  I  had  seen  before  only  in  sporting 
goods  windows;  there  were  things  I  had  never  seen 
before,  anywhere;  there  were  things  of  which  I  could 
not  even  guess  the  use.  In  the  center  of  everything 

26 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


were  bags — canvas  and  oil-skin  receptacles,  vigorously 
named  "  tackle  bag,"  "  wardrobe,"  "  war  bag  "  and 
the  like — and  into  these  the  contents  of  the  room  were 
gradually  but  firmly  disappearing,  taking  their  pre 
destined  place  according  to  Eddie's  method — for, 
after  all,  it  was  a  method — and  as  I  looked  at  Eddie, 
unshaven  for  weeks,  grizzled  and  glaring,  yet  glowing 
with  deep  kindliness  and  the  joy  of  anticipation,  I 
could  think  of  nothing  but  Santa  Claus,  packing  for 
his  annual  journey  that  magic  bag  which  holds  more 
and  ever  more,  and  is  so  deep  and  so  wide  in  its 
beneficence  that  after  all  the  comforts  and  the  sweets 
of  life  are  crowded  within,  there  still  is  room  for  more 
a-top.  Remembering  my  own  one  small  bag  which 
I  had  planned  to  take,  with  side  pockets  for  tackle, 
and  a  place  between  for  certain  changes  of  raiment,  I 
felt  my  unimportance  more  and  more,  and  the  great 
need  of  having  an  outfit  like  Eddie's — of  having  it 
in  the  party,  I  mean,  handy  like,  where  it  would  be 
easy  to  get  hold  of  in  time  of  need.  I  foresaw  that 
clothes  would  want  mending;  also,  perhaps,  rods;  and 
it  was  pleasant  to  note  that  my  tent-mate  would  have 
boxes  of  tools  for  all  such  repairs. 

I  foresaw,  too,  that  I  should  burn,  and  bruise,  and 
cut  myself  and  that  Eddie's  liniments  and  lotions  and 
New  Skin  would  come  in  handy.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  in  those  bags  would  be  almost  everything  that 
human  heart  could  need  or  human  ills  require,  and 
when  we  went  below  where  Del  and  Charlie,  our 

27 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


appointed  guides,  were  crowding  certain  other  bags 
full  of  the  bulkier  stores — packages,  cans  and  bottles, 
and  when  I  gazed  about  on  still  other  things — tents, 
boots,  and  baskets  of  camp  furniture — I  had  a  sense 
of  being  cared  for,  though  I  could  not  but  wonder 
how  two  small  canoes  were  going  to  float  all  that 
provender  and  plunder  and  four  strong  men. 


28 


Chapter  Jfibe 

Then  away  to  the  heart  of  the  deep  unknown, 
Where  the  trout  and  the  wild  moose  are — 

Where  the  fire  burns  bright,  and  tent  gleams  white 
Under  the  northern  star. 


Chapter  Jftoe 

IT  was  possible  to  put  our  canoes  into  one  of  the 
lakes  near  the  hotel  and  enter  the  wilderness  by 
water — the  Liverpool  chain — but  it  was  decided 
to  load  boats  and  baggage  into  wagons  and  drive 
through  the  woods — a  distance  of  some  seventeen 
uneven  miles — striking  at  once  for  the  true  wilderness 
where  the  larger  trout  were  said  to  dwell  and  the 
"  over  Sunday  "  fisherman  does  not  penetrate.  Then 
for  a  day  or  two  we  would  follow  waters  and  portages 
familiar  to  our  guides,  after  which  we  would  be  on 
the  borders  of  the  unknown,  prepared  to  conquer  the 
wilderness  with  an  assortment  of  fishing  rods,  a  sup 
ply  of  mosquito  ointment  and  a  pair  of  twenty-two 
caliber  rifles,  these  being  our  only  guns. 

It  seems  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  we  expected 
to  do  little  shooting.  In  the  first  place  it  was  out  of 
season  for  most  things,  though  this  did  not  matter 
so  much,  for  Eddie  had  in  some  manner  armed  him 
self  with  a  commission  from  the  British  Museum  to 
procure  specimens  dead  or  alive,  and  this  amounted 
to  a  permit  to  kill,  and  skin,  and  hence  to  eat,  pro 
miscuously  and  at  will.  But  I  believe  as  a  party, 
we  were  averse  to  promiscuous  killing;  besides  it  is 
well  to  be  rather  nice  in  the  matter  of  special  permits. 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


Also,  we  had  come,  in  the  main,  for  trout  and  explo 
ration.  It  was  agreed  between  us  that,  even  if  it  were 
possible  to  hit  anything  with  our  guns,  we  would  not 
kill  without  skinning,  and  we  wouldn't  skin  without 
eating,  after  which  resolution  the  forest  things  proba 
bly  breathed  easier,  for  it  was  a  fairly  safe  handicap. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  that  morning  drive  to  Jake's 
Landing,  at  the  head  of  Lake  Ked-gee-ma-koo-gee, 
where  we  put  in  our  canoes.  My  trip  on  the  train 
along  the  coast,  and  the  drive  through  farming  coun 
try,  more  or  less  fertile,  had  given  me  little  conception 
of  this  sinister  land — rockstrewn  and  barren,  seared 
by  a  hundred  forest  fires.  Whatever  of  green  timber 
still  stands  is  likely  to  be  little  more  than  brush. 
Above  it  rise  the  bare,  gaunt  skeletons  of  dead  forests, 
bleached  with  age,  yet  blackened  by  the  tongues  of 
flame  that  burned  out  the  life  and  wealth  of  a  land 
which  is  now  little  more  than  waste  and  desolation — 
the  haunt  of  the  moose,  the  loon  and  the  porcupine, 
the  natural  home  of  the  wild  trout. 

It  is  true,  that  long  ago,  heavy  timber  was  cut 
from  these  woods,  but  the  wealth  thus  obtained  was 
as  nothing  to  that  which  has  gone  up  in  conflagrations, 
started  by  the  careless  lumbermen  and  prospectors 
and  hunters  of  a  later  day.  Such  timber  as  is  left 
barely  pays  for  the  cutting,  and  old  sluices  are  blocked 
and  old  dams  falling  to  decay.  No  tiller  of  the  soil 
can  exist  in  these  woods,  for  the  ground  is  heaped 
and  drifted  and  windrowed  with  slabs  and  bowlders, 

32 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


suggesting  the  wreck  of  some  mighty  war  of  the 
gods — some  titanic  missile-flinging  combat,  with  this 
as  the  battle  ground.  Bleak,  unsightly,  unproductive, 
mangled  and  distorted  out  of  all  shape  and  form  of 
loveliness,  yet  with  a  fierce,  wild  fascination  in  it  that 
amounts  almost  to  beauty — that  is  the  Nova  Scotia 
woods. 

Only  the  water  is  not  like  that.  Once  on  the  stream 
or  lake  and  all  is  changed.  For  the  shores  are  green ; 
the  river  or  brook  is  clear  and  cold — and  tarry  black 
in  the  deep  places;  the  water  leaps  and  dashes  in 
whirlpools  and  torrents,  and  the  lakes  are  fairy  lakes, 
full  of  green  islands — mere  ledges,  many  of  them, 
with  two  or  three  curious  sentinel  pines — and  every 
where  the  same  clear,  black  water,  and  always  the 
trout,  the  wonderful,  wild,  abounding  Nova  Scotia 
trout. 

To  Jake's  Landing  was  a  hard,  jolting  drive  over 
a  bad  road,  with  only  a  break  here  and  there  where 
there  is  a  house  or  two,  and  maybe  a  sawmill  and  a 
post-office,  the  last  sentinels  of  civilization.  It  was  at 
Mainland,  the  most  important  of  these  way  stations, 
that  we  met  Loon.  Maitland  is  almost  a  village,  an 
old  settlement,  in  fact,  with  a  store  or  two,  some 
pretty  houses  and  a  mill.  Loon  is  a  dog  of  the  hound 
variety  who  makes  his  home  there,  and  a  dear  and 
faithful  friend  of  Eddie's,  by  the  latter's  account. 
Indeed,  as  we  drew  near  Maitland,  after  announcing 
that  he  would  wish  to  stop  at  the  Maitland  stores  to 

33 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


procure  some  new  things  he  had  thought  of,  Eddie 
became  really  boastful  of  an  earlier  friendship  with 
Loon.  He  had  met  Loon  on  a  former  visit,  during 
his  (Loon's)  puppyhood  days,  and  he  had  recorded 
the  meeting  in  his  diary,  wherein  Loon  had  been  set 
down  as  "  a  most  intelligent  and  affectionate  young 
dog."  He  produced  the  diary  now  as  evidence,  and 
I  could  see  that  our  guides  were  impressed  by  this 
method  of  systematic  and  absolute  record  which  no 
one  dare  dispute.  He  proceeded  to  tell  us  all  he  knew 
about  Loon,  and  how  glad  Loon  would  be  to  see 
him  again,  until  we  were  all  jealous  that  no  intelligent 
and  affectionate  hound  dog  was  waiting  for  us  at 
Maitland  to  sound  the  joy  of  welcome  and  to  speed 
us  with  his  parting  bark. 

Then  all  at  once  we  were  at  Maitland  and  before 
Loon's  home,  and  sure  enough  there  in  the  front 
yard,  wagging  both  body  and  tail,  stood  Loon.  It 
took  but  one  glance  for  Eddie  to  recognize  him.  Per 
haps  it  took  no  more  than  that  for  Loon  to  recognize 
Eddie.  I  don't  know;  but  what  he  did  was  this:  He 
lifted  up  his  voice  as  one  mourning  for  a  lost  soul  and 
uttered  such  a  series  of  wails  and  lamentations  as 
only  a  hound  dog  in  the  deepest  sorrow  can  make 
manifest. 

"  Wow-ow-oo-ow-wow-oo-oo-o." 

The  loon  bird  sends  a  fairly  unhappy  note  float 
ing  down  the  wet,  chill  loneliness  of  a  far,  rainy  lake, 
but  never  can  the  most  forlorn  of  loons  hope  to 

34 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


approach  his  canine  namesake  of  Maitland.  Once 
more  he  broke  out  into  a  burst  of  long-drawn  misery, 
then  suddenly  took  off  under  the  house  as  if  he  had 
that  moment  remembered  an  appointment  there,  and 
feared  he  would  be  late.  But  presently  he  looked 
out,  fearfully  enough,  and  with  his  eyes  fixed  straight 
on  Eddie,  set  up  still  another  of  those  heart-breaking 
protests. 

As  for  Eddie,  I  could  see  that  he  was  hurt.  He 
climbed  miserably  down  from  the  wagon  and  crept 
gently  toward  the  sorrowing  hound. 

"  Nice  Loon — nice,  good  Loon.  Don't  you  re 
member  me?  " 

"  Wow-ow-oo-ow-wow-oo-oo-o,"  followed  by  an 
other  disappearance  under  the  house. 

u  Come,  Loon,  come  out  and  see  your  old  friend 
— that's  a  good  dog!  " 

It  was  no  use.  Loon's  sorrow  would  not  be  allayed, 
and  far  beyond  Maitland  we  still  heard  him  wailing 
it  down  the  wind. 

Of  course  it  was  but  natural  that  we  should  discuss 
the  matter  with  Eddie.  He  had  assured  us  that  dogs 
never  forget,  and  we  pressed  him  now  to  confess  what 
extreme  cruelty  or  deceit  he  had  practiced  upon  Loon 
in  his  puppyhood,  that  the  grown  hound  dog  had 
remembered,  and  reproached  him  for  to-day.  But  for 
the  most  part  Eddie  remained  silent  and  seemed 
depressed.  Neither  did  he  again  produce  his  diary, 
though  we  urged  him  to  do  so,  in  order  that  he  might 

35 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


once  more  read  to  us  what  he  had  recorded  of  Loon. 
Perhaps  something  had  been  overlooked,  something 
that  would  make  Loon's  lamentations  clear.  I  think 
we  were  all  glad  when  at  last  there  came  a  gleam 
through  the  trees  and  we  were  at  Jake's  Landing, 
where  our  boats  would  first  touch  the  water,  where  we 
would  break  our  bread  in  the  wilderness  for  the  first 
time. 

It  was  not  much  of  a  place  to  camp.  There  was 
little  shade,  a  good  deal  of  mud,  and  the  sun  was 
burning  hot.  There  was  a  remnant  of  black  flies,  too, 
and  an  advance  guard  of  mosquitoes.  Eddie  pro 
duced  his  jug  of  fly  mixture  and  we  anointed 
ourselves  for  the  first  time,  putting  on  a  pungent 
fragrance  which  was  to  continue  a  part  of  us,  body 
and  bone,  so  long  as  the  wilderness  remained  our 
shelter.  It  was  greasy  and  sticky  and  I  could  not 
muster  an  instant  liking  for  the  combined  fragrance 
of  camphor,  pennyroyal  and  tar.  But  Eddie  assured 
me  that  I  would  learn  to  love  it,  and  I  was  willing 
to  try. 

I  was  more  interested  in  the  loading  of  the  canoes. 
Del,  stout  of  muscle  and  figure — not  to  say  fat,  at 
least  not  over  fat — and  Charlie,  light  of  weight  and 
heart — sometimes  known  as  Charles  the  Strong — 
were  packing  and  fitting  our  plunder  into  place,  con 
densing  it  into  a  tight  and  solid  compass  in  the  center 
of  our  canoes  in  a  way  that  commanded  my  respect 
and  even  awe.  I  could  see,  however,  that  when  our 

36 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


craft  was  loaded  the  water  line  and  the  gunwale  were 
not  so  far  apart,  and  I  realized  that  one  would  want 
to  sit  decently  still  in  a  craft  like  that,  especially  in 
rough  water. 

Meantime,  Eddie  had  coupled  up  a  rod  and  stand 
ing  on  a  projecting  log  was  making  a  few  casts.  I 
assumed  that  he  was  merely  giving  us  an  exhibition 
of  his  skill  in  throwing  a  fly,  with  no  expectation  of 
really  getting  a  rise  in  this  open,  disturbed  place.  It 
was  fine,  though,  to  see  his  deft  handling  of  the  rod 
and  I  confess  I  watched  him  with  something  of  envy. 
I  may  confess,  too,  that  my  own  experience  with  fly 
casting  had  been  confined  to  tumbling  brooks  with 
small  pools  and  overhanging  boughs,  where  to  throw 
a  fly  means  merely  to  drop  it  on  a  riffle,  or  at  most  to 
swing  it  out  over  a  swirling  current  below  a  fall.  I 
wondered  as  I  watched  Eddie  if  I  ever  should  be  able 
to  send  a  fly  sailing  backward  and  then  shoot  it  out 
forward  a  matter  of  twenty  yards  or  so  with  that 
almost  imperceptible  effort  of  the  wrist;  and  even  if  I 
did  learn  the  movement,  if  I  could  manage  to  make 
the  fly  look  real  enough  in  such  smooth,  open  water 
as  this  to  fool  even  the  blindest  and  silliest  of  trout. 

But,  suddenly,  where  Eddie's  fly — it  was  a  Silver 
Doctor,  I  think — fell  lightly  on  the  water,  there  was 
a  quick  swirl,  a  flash  and  then  a  widening  circle  of 
rings. 

"  You  got  him  comin',"  commented  Charlie,  who, 
it  seems,  had  been  noticing. 

38 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


The  fly  went  skimming  out  over  the  water  again 
and  softly  as  thistle  seed  settled  exactly  in  the  center 
of  the  circling  rings.  But  before  it  touched,  almost, 
there  came  the  flash  and  break  again,  and  this  time 
there  followed  the  quick  stiffening  of  the  rod,  a  sud 
den  tightening  of  the  line,  and  a  sharp,  keen  singing 
of  the  reel. 

"  That's  the  time,"  commented  Charlie  and 
reached  for  a  landing  net. 

To  him  it  was  as  nothing — a  thing  to  be  done  a 
hundred  times  a  day.  But  to  me  the  world  heaved 
and  reeled  with  excitement.  It  was  the  first  trout 
of  the  expedition,  the  first  trout  I  had  ever  seen  taken 
in  such  water,  probably  the  largest  trout  I  had  ever 
seen  taken  in  any  water.  In  the  tension  of  the 
moment  I  held  my  breath,  or  uttered  involuntary 
comments. 

It  was  beautiful  to  see  Eddie  handle  that  trout. 
The  water  was  open  and  smooth  and  there  is  no 
gainsaying  Eddie's  skill.  Had  he  been  giving  an 
exhibition  performance  it  could  not  have  been  more 
perfect.  There  was  no  eagerness,  no  driving  and 
dragging,  no  wild  fear  of  the  fish  getting  away.  The 
curved  rod,  the  taut  swaying  line. and  the  sensitive 
hand  and  wrist  did  the  work.  Now  and  again  there 
was  a  rush,  and  the  reel  sang  as  it  gave  line,  but  there 
was  never  the  least  bit  of  slack  in  the  recover.  Nearer 
and  nearer  came  the  still  unseen  captive,  and  then 
presently  our  fisherman  took  the  net  from  his  guide, 

39 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


there  was  a  little  dipping  movement  in  the  water  at 
his  feet  and  the  first  trout  of  the  expedition  was  a 
visible  fact — his  golden  belly  and  scarlet  markings 
the  subject  of  admiration  and  comment. 

It  was  not  a  very  big  fish  by  Nova  Scotia  standards 
— about  three-quarters  of  a  pound,  I  believe;  but  it 
was  the  largest  trout  I  had  ever  seen  alive,  at  that 
time,  and  I  was  consumed  with  envy.  I  was  also  rash. 
A  little  more,  and  I  had  a  rod  up,  was  out  on  a  log 
engaged  in  a  faithful  effort  to  swing  that  rod  exactly 
like  Eddie's  and  to  land  the  fly  precisely  in  the  same 
place. 

But  for  some  reason  the  gear  wouldn't  work.  In 
front  of  me,  the  fly  fell  everywhere  but  in  the  desired 
spot,  and  back  of  me  the  guides  dodged  and  got 
behind  bushes.  You  see,  a  number  three  steel  hook 
sailing  about  promiscuously  in  the  air,  even  when 
partially  concealed  in  a  fancy  bunch  of  feathers,  is 
a  thing  to  be  avoided.  I  had  a  clear  field  in  no  time, 
but  perhaps  Eddie  had  caught  the  only  fish  in  the 
pool,  for  even  he  could  get  no  more  rises.  Still  I  per 
sisted  and  got  hot  and  fierce,  and  when  I  looked  at 
Eddie  I  hated  him  because  he  didn't  cut  his  hair,  and 
reflected  bitterly  that  it  was  no  wonder  a  half-savage 
creature  like  that  could  fish.  Finally  I  hooked  a  tree 
top  behind  me  and  in  jerking  the  fly  loose  made  a 
misstep  and  went  up  to  my  waist  in  water.  The 
tension  broke  then — I  helped  to  break  it — and  the 
fishing  trip  had  properly  begun. 

40 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


The  wagons  had  left  us  now,  and  we  were  alone 
with  our  canoes  and  our  guides.  Del,  the  stout,  who 
was  to  have  my  especial  fortunes  in  hand,  knelt  in 
the  stern  of  the  larger  canoe  and  I  gingerly  entered 
the  bow.  Then  Eddie  and  his  guide  found  their 
respective  places  in  the  lighter  craft  and  we  were 
ready  to  move.  A  moment  more  and  we  would  drop 
down  the  stream  to  the  lake,  and  so  set  out  on  our 
long  journey. 

I  recall  now  that  I  was  hot  and  wet  and  still  a  little 
cross.  I  had  never  had  any  especial  enthusiasm  about 
the  expedition  and  more  than  once  had  regretted  my 
pledge  made  across  the  table  at  the  end  of  the  old 
year.  Even  the  bustle  of  preparation  and  the  journey 
into  a  strange  land  had  only  mildly  stirred  me,  and 
I  felt  now  that  for  me,  at  least,  things  were  likely  to 
drag.  There  were  many  duties  at  home  that  required 
attention.  These  woods  were  full  of  mosquitoes, 
probably  malaria.  It  was  possible  that  I  should  take 
cold,  be  very  ill  and  catch  no  fish  whatever.  But  then 
suddenly  we  dropped  out  into  the  lake — Kedgeema- 
koogee,  the  lake  of  the  fairies — a  broad  expanse  of 
black  water,  dotted  with  green  islands,  and  billowing 
white  in  the  afternoon  wind,  and  just  as  we  rounded 
I  felt  a  sudden  tug  at  the  end  of  my  line  which  was 
trailing  out  behind  the  canoe. 

In  an  instant  I  was  alive.  Del  cautioned  me  softly 
from  the  stern,  for  there  is  no  guide  who  does  not 
wish  his  charge  to  acquit  himself  well. 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


"  Easy  now — easy,"  he  said.  "  That's  a  good  one 
— don't  hurry  him." 

But  every  nerve  in  me  began  to  tingle — every  drop 
of  blood  to  move  faster.  I  was  eaten  with  a  wild 
desire  to  drag  my  prize  into  the  boat  before  he  could 
escape.  Then  all  at  once  it  seemed  to  me  that  my  line 
must  be  fast,  the  pull  was  so  strong  and  fixed.  But 
looking  out  behind,  Del  saw  the  water  break  just  then 
— a  sort  of  double  flash. 

"  Good,  you've  got  a  pair,"  he  said.  "  Careful, 
now,  and  we'll  save  'em  both." 

To  tell  the  truth  I  had  no  hope  of  saving  either, 
and  if  I  was  careful  I  didn't  feel  so.  When  I  let  the 
line  go  out,  as  I  was  obliged  to,  now  and  then,  to 
keep  from  breaking  it  altogether,  I  had  a  wild,  hope 
less  feeling  that  I  could  never  take  it  up  again  and 
that  the  prize  was  just  that  much  farther  away. 
Whenever  there  came  a  sudden  slackening  I  was  sick 
ened  with  a  fear  that  the  fish  wrere  gone,  and  ground 
the  reel  handle  feverishly.  Fifty  yards  away  the  other 
canoe,  with  Eddie  in  the  bow,  had  struck  nothing  as 
yet,  and  if  I  could  land  these  two  I  should  be  one 
ahead  on  the  score.  It  seems  now  a  puny  ambition, 
but  it  was  vital  then.  I  was  no  longer  cold,  or  hot, 
or  afraid  of  malaria,  or  mosquitoes,  or  anything  of 
the  sort.  Duties  more  or  less  important  at  home  were 
forgotten.  I  was  concerned  only  with  those  two  trout 
that  had  fastened  to  my  flies,  the  Silver  Doctor  and 
the  Parmcheenie  Belle,  out  there  in  the  black,  tossing 

42 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


water,  and  with  the  proper  method  of  keeping  my  line 
taut,  but  not  too  taut,  easy,  but  not  too  easy,  with 
working  the  prize  little  by  little  within  reach  of  the 
net.  Eddie,  suddenly  seeing  my  employment,  called 
across  congratulations  and  encouragement.  Then, 
immediately,  he  was  busy  too,  with  a  fish  of  his  own, 
and  the  sport,  the  great,  splendid  sport  of  the  far 
north  woods,  had  really  begun. 

I  brought  my  catch  near  the  boatside  at  last,  but 
it  is  no  trifling  matter  to  get  two  trout  into  a  net 
when  they  are  strung  out  on  a  six-foot  leader,  with 
the  big  trout  on  the  top  fly.  Reason  dictates  that 
the  end  trout  should  go  in  first  and  at  least  twice  I 
had  him  in,  when  the  big  fellow  at  the  top  gave  a 
kick  that  landed  both  outside.  It's  a  mercy  I  did  not 
lose  both,  but  at  last  with  a  lucky  hitch  they  were  duly 
netted,  in  the  canoe,  and  I  was  weak  and  hysterical, 
but  triumphant.  There  was  one  of  nearly  a  pound 
and  a  half,  and  the  other  a  strong  half-pound,  not 
guess  weight,  but  by  Eddie's  scales,  which  I  confess  I 
thought  niggardly.  Never  had  I  taken  such  fish  in 
the  Adirondack  or  Berkshire  streams  I  had  known, 
and  what  was  more,  these  were  two  at  a  time !  * 

Eddie  had  landed  a  fine  trout  also,  and  we  drew 
alongside,  now,  for  consultation.  The  wind  had 

*  The  ordinary  New  York  and  New  England  "half  pound  trout"  will  weigh 
anywhere  from  four  to  six  ounces.  It  takes  a  trout  nearly  a  foot  long  to 
weigh  half  a  pound.  With  each  additional  inch  the  weight  increases  rapidly. 
A  trout  thirteen  inches  in  length  will  weigh  about  three  quarters  of  a  pound. 
A  fourteen-inch  trout  will  weigh  a  pound.  A  fifteen-inch  trout,  in  good  condi 
tion,  will  weigh  one  and  a  half  pounds,  plump. 

43 


'The  Tent  Dwellers 


freshened,  the  waves  were  running  higher,  and  with 
our  heavy  canoes  the  six-mile  paddle  across  would 
be  a  risky  undertaking.  Why  not  pitch  our  first 
night's  camp  nearby,  here  on  Jim  Charles'  point — a 
beautiful  spot  where  once  long  ago  a  half-civilized 
Indian  had  made  his  home  ?  In  this  cove  before  dark 
we  could  do  abundant  fishing. 

For  me  there  was  no  other  plan.  I  was  all  enthu 
siasm,  now.  There  were  trout  here  and  I  could  catch 
them.  That  was  enough.  Civilization — the  world, 
flesh  and  the  devil — mankind  and  all  the  duties  of  life 
were  as  nothing.  Here  were  the  woods  and  the 
waters.  There  was  the  point  for  the  campfire  and  the 
tents.  About  us  were  the  leaping  trout.  The  spell 
of  the  forest  and  the  chase  gripped  me  body  and 
soul.  Only  these  things  were  worth  while.  Nothing 
else  mattered — nothing  else  existed. 

We  landed  and  in  a  little  while  the  tents  were  white 
on  the  shore,  Del  and  Charlie  getting  them  up  as  if 
by  conjury.  Then  once  more  we  were  out  in  the 
canoes  and  the  curved  rod  and  the  taut  line  and 
the  singing  reel  dominated  every  other  force  under  the 
wide  sky.  It  was  not  the  truest  sport,  maybe,  for  the 
fish  were  chiefly  taken  with  trolling  flies.  But  to  me, 
then,  it  did  not  matter.  Suffice  it  that  they  were 
fine  and  plentiful,  and  that  I  was  two  ahead  of  Eddie 
when  at  last  we  drew  in  for  supper. 

That  was  joy  enough,  and  then  such  trout — for 
there  are  no  trout  on  earth  like  those  one  catches 

44 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


himself — such  a  campfire,  such  a  cozy  tent  (Eddie's 
it  was,  from  one  of  the  catalogues),  with  the  guides' 
tent  facing,  and  the  fire  between.  For  us  there  was 
no  world  beyond  that  circle  of  light  that  on  one  side 
glinted  among  boughs  of  spruce  and  cedar  and  maple 
and  birch,  and  on  the  other,  gleamed  out  on  the  black 
water.  Lying  back  on  our  beds  and  smoking,  and 
looking  at  the  fire  and  the  smoke  curling  up  among 
the  dark  branches  toward  the  stars,  and  remembering 
the  afternoon's  sport  and  all  the  other  afternoons 
and  mornings  and  nights  still  to  come,  I  was  moved 
with  a  deep  sense  of  gratitude  in  my  heart  toward 
Eddie. 

"  Eddie,"  I  murmured,  "  I  forgive  you  all  those 
lists,  and  everything,  even  your  hair.  I  begin  to 
understand  now  something  of  how  you  feel  about  the 
woods  and  the  water,  and  all.  Next  time " 

Then  (for  it  was  the  proper  moment)  I  confessed 
fully — the  purchasing  agent,  the  tin  whistle,  even  the 
Jock  Scott  with  two  hooks. 


45 


Chapter 


Nearer  the  fire  the  shadows  creep  — 
The  brands  burn  dim  and  red  — 

While  the  pillow  of  sleep  lies  soft  and  deep 
Under  a  weary  head. 


Cfjapter 

WHEN  one  has  been  accustomed  to  the  com 
forts  of  civilized  life — the  small  ones,  I 
mean,  for  they  are  the  only  ones  that  count 
— the  beginning  of  a  wild,  free  life  near  to  nature's 
heart  begets  a  series  of  impressions  quite  new,  and 
strange — so  strange.  It  is  not  that  one  misses  a  house 
of  solid  walls  and  roof,  with  stairways  and  steam 
radiators.  These  are  the  larger  comforts  and  are 
more  than  made  up  for  by  the  sheltering  temple  of 
the  trees,  the  blazing  campfire  and  the  stairway  lead 
ing  to  the  stars.  But  there  are  things  that  one  does 
miss — a  little — just  at  first.  When  we  had  finished 
our  first  evening's  smoke  and  the  campfire  was  burn 
ing  low — when  there  was  nothing  further  to  do  but 
go  to  bed,  I  suddenly  realized  that  the  man  who  said 
he  would  be  willing  to  do  without  all  the  rest  of  a 
house  if  he  could  keep  the  bathroom,  spoke  as  one 
with  an  inspired  knowledge  of  human  needs. 

I  would  not  suggest  that  I  am  a  person  given  to 
luxurious  habits  and  vain  details  in  the  matter  of 
evening  toilet.  But  there  are  so  many  things  one  is 
in  the  habit  of  doing  just  about  bedtime,  which  in  a 
bathroom,  with  its  varied  small  conveniences,  seem 
nothing  at  all,  yet  which  assume  undue  proportions 

49 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


in  the  deep,  dim  heart  of  nature  where  only  the  large 
primitive  comforts  have  been  provided.  I  had  never 
been  in  the  habit,  for  instance,  of  stumbling  through 
several  rods  of  bushes  and  tangled  vines  to  get  to  a 
wash-bowl  that  was  four  miles  wide  and  six  miles  long 
and  full  of  islands  and  trout,  and  maybe  snapping  tur 
tles  (I  know  there  were  snapping  turtles,  for  Charlie 
had  been  afraid  to  leave  his  shoepacks  on  the  beach  for 
fear  the  turtles  would  carry  them  off),  and  I  had  not 
for  many  years  known  what  it  was  to  bathe  my  face 
on  a  ground  level  or  to  brush  my  teeth  in  the  attitude 
of  prayer.  It  was  all  new  and  strange,  as  I  have  said, 
and  there  was  no  hot  water — not  even  a  faucet — that 
didn't  run,  maybe,  because  the  man  upstairs  was  using 
it.  There  wasn't  any  upstairs  except  the  treetops  and 
the  sky,  though,  after  all,  these  made  up  for  a  good 
deal,  for  the  treetops  feathered  up  and  faded  into  the 
dusky  blue,  and  the  blue  was  sown  with  stars  that 
were  caught  up  and  multiplied  by  every  tiny  wrinkle 
on  the  surface  of  the  great  black  bowl  and  sent  in 
myriad  twinklings  to  our  feet. 

Still,  I  would  have  exchanged  the  stars  for  a  few 
minutes,  for  a  one-candle  power  electric  light,  or  even 
for  a  single  gas  jet  with  such  gas  as  one  gets  when  the 
companies  combine  and  establish  a  uniform  rate.  I 
had  mislaid  my  tube  of  dentifrice  and  in  the  dim,  pale 
starlight  I  pawed  around  and  murmured  to  myself  a 
good  while  before  I  finally  called  Eddie  to  help  me. 

"  Oh,  let  it  go,"  he  said.  "  It'll  be  there  for  you 
5° 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


in  the  morning.  I  always  leave  mine,  and  my  soap 
and  towel,  too." 

He  threw  his  towel  over  a  limb,  laid  his  soap  on  a 
log  and  faced  toward  the  camp.  I  hesitated.  I  was 
unused  to  leaving  my  things  out  overnight.  My  cus 
tom  was  to  hang  my  towel  neatly  over  a  rack,  to 
stand  my  toothbrush  upright  in  a  glass  on  a  little 
shelf  with  the  dentifrice  beside  it.  Habit  is  strong.  I 
did  not  immediately  consent  to  this  wide  and  gaudy 
freedom  of  the  woods. 

"  Suppose  it  rains,"  I  said. 

"  All  the  better — it  will  wash  the  towels." 

"  But  they  will  be  wet  in  the  morning." 

"  Um — yes — in  the  woods  things  generally  are 
wet  in  the  morning.  You'll  get  used  to  that." 

It  is  likewise  my  habit  to  comb  my  hair  before 
retiring,  and  to  look  at  myself  in  the  glass,  meantime. 
This  may  be  due  to  vanity.  It  may  be  a  sort  of 
general  inspection  to  see  if  I  have  added  any  new 
features,  or  lost  any  of  those  plucked  from  the  family 
tree.  Perhaps  it  is  only  to  observe  what  the  day's 
burdens  have  done  for  me  in  the  way  of  wrinkles  and 
gray  hairs.  Never  mind  the  reason,  it  is  a  habit;  but 
I  didn't  realize  how  precious  it  was  to  me  until  I  got 
back  to  the  tent  and  found  that  our  only  mirror  was 
in  Eddie's  collection,  set  in  the  back  of  a  combination 
comb-brush  affair  about  the  size  of  one's  thumb. 

Of  course  it  was  not  at  all  adequate  for  anything 
like  a  general  inspection.  It  would  just  about  hold 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


one  eye,  or  a  part  of  a  mouth,  or  a  section  of  a  nose, 
or  a  piece  of  an  ear  or  a  little  patch  of  hair,  and  it 
kept  you  busy  guessing  where  that  patch  was  located. 
Furthermore,  as  the  comb  was  a  part  of  the  com 
bination,  the  little  mirror  was  obliged  to  be  twinkling 
around  over  one's  head  at  the  precise  moment  when 
it  should  have  been  reflecting  some  portion  of  one's 
features.  It  served  no  useful  purpose,  thus,  and  was 
not  much  better  when  I  looked  up  another  comb  and 
tried  to  use  it  in  the  natural  way.  Held  close  and  far 
off,  twisted  and  turned,  it  was  no  better.  I  felt  lost 
and  disturbed,  as  one  always  does  when  suddenly 
deprived  of  the  exercise  of  an  old  and  dear  habit, 
and  I  began  to  make  mental  notes  of  some  things  I 
should  bring  on  the  next  trip. 

There  was  still  a  good  deal  to  do — still  a  number 
of  small  but  precious  conveniences  to  be  found  want 
ing.  Eddie  noticed  that  I  was  getting  into  action  and 
said  he  would  stay  outside  while  I  was  stowing  myself 
away;  which  was  good  of  him,  for  I  needed  the  room. 
When  I  began  to  take  off  things  I  found  I  needed 
his  bed,  too,  to  put  them  on.  I  suppose  I  had  expected 
there  would  be  places  to  hang  them.  I  am  said  to  be 
rather  absent-minded,  and  I  believe  I  stood  for  several 
minutes  with  some  sort  of  a  garment  in  my  hand, 
turning  thoughtfully  one  way  and  another,  probably 
expecting  a  hook  to  come  drifting  somewhere  within 
reach.  Yes,  hooks  are  one  of  the  small  priceless  con 
veniences,  and  under-the-bed  is  another.  I  never 

52 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


suspected  that  the  space  under  the  bed  could  be  a 
luxury  until  I  began  to  look  for  a  place  to  put  my 
shoes  and  handbag.  Our  tent  was  just  long  enough 
for  our  sleeping-bags,  and  just  about  wide  enough  for 
them — one  along  each  side,  with  a  narrow  footway 
between.  They  were  laid  on  canvas  stretchers  which 
had  poles  through  wide  hems  down  the  sides — the 
ends  of  these  poles  (cut  at  each  camp  and  selected 
for  strength  and  springiness)  spread  apart  and  tacked 
to  larger  cross  poles,  which  arrangement  raised  us 
just  clear  of  the  ground,  leaving  no  space  for  anything 
of  consequence  underneath.  You  could  hardly  put  a 
fishing  rod  there,  or  a  pipe,  without  discomfort  to  the 
flesh  and  danger  to  the  articles.  Undressing  and 
bestowing  oneself  in  an  upper  berth  is  attended  with 
problems,  but  the  berth  is  not  so  narrow,  and  it  is  flat 
and  solid,  and  there  are  hooks  and  little  hammocks 
and  things — valuable  advantages,  now  fondly  recalled. 
I  finally  piled  everything  on  Eddie's  bed,  temporarily. 
I  didn't  know  what  I  was  going  to  do  with  it  next, 
but  anything  was  a  boon  for  the  moment.  Just  then 
Eddie  looked  in. 

'  That's  your  pillow  material,  you  know,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  my  medley  of  garments.  "  You  want  a 
pillow,  don't  you?  " 

Sure  enough,  I  had  no  pillow,  and  I  did  want  one. 
T  always  want  a  pillow  and  a  high  one.  It  is  another 
habit. 

"  Let  me  show  you,"  he  said. 
53 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


So  he  took  my  shoes  and  placed  them,  one  on  each 
side  of  my  couch,  about  where  a  pillow  should  be, 
with  the  soles  out,  making  each  serve  as  a  sort  of 
retaining  wall.  Then  he  began  to  double  and  fold 
and  fill  the  hollow  between,  taking  the  bunchy,  seamy 
things  first  and  topping  off  with  the  softer,  smoother 
garments  in  a  deft,  workmanlike  way.  I  was  even 
moved  to  add  other  things  from  my  bag  to  make  it 
higher  and  smoother. 

"  Now,  put  your  bag  on  the  cross-pole  behind  your 
pillow  and  let  it  lean  back  against  the  tent.  It  will 
stay  there  and  make  a  sort  of  head  to  your  bed, 
besides  being  handy  in  case  you  want  to  get  at  it  in 
the  night." 

Why,  it  was  as  simple  and  easy  as  nothing.  My 
admiration  for  Eddie  grew.  I  said  I  would  get  into 
my  couch  at  once  in  order  that  he  might  distribute 
himself  likewise. 

But  this  was  not  so  easy.  I  had  never  got  into  a 
sleeping-bag  before,  and  it  is  a  thing  that  requires 
a  little  practice  to  do  it  with  skill  and  grace.  It  has 
to  be  done  section  at  a  time,  and  one's  night  garment 
must  be  worked  down  co-ordinately  in  order  that  it 
may  not  become  merely  a  stuffy  life-preserver  thing 
under  one's  arms.  To  a  beginner  this  is  slow,  warm 
work.  By  the  time  I  was  properly  down  among  the 
coarse,  new  blankets  and  had  permeated  the  remotest 
corners  of  the  clinging  envelope,  I  had  had  a  lot  of 
hard  exercise  and  was  hot  and  thirsty.  So  Del 

54 


The  Tent  Dwellers 


brought  me  a  drink  of  water.  I  wasn't  used  to  being 
waited  on  in  that  way,  but  it  was  pleasant.  After 
all  there  were  some  conveniences  of  camp  life  that 
were  worth  while.  And  the  bed  was  comfortable 
and  the  pillow  felt  good.  I  lay  watching  Eddie  shape 
his  things  about,  all  his  bags  and  trappings  falling 
naturally  into  the  places  they  were  to  occupy  through 
the  coming  weeks.  The  flat-topped  bag  with  the 
apothecary  stores  and  other  urgency  articles  went  at 
the  upper  end  of  the  little  footway,  and  made  a  sort 
of  table  between  our  beds.  Another  bag  went  behind 
his  pillow,  which  he  made  as  he  had  made  mine, 
though  he  topped  it  off  with  a  little  rubber  affair 
which  he  inflated  while  I  made  another  mental  memo 
randum  for  next  year.  A  third  bag 

But  I  did  not  see  the  fate  of  the  third  bag.  A 
haze  drifted  in  between  me  and  the  busy  little  figure 
that  was  placing  and  pulling  and  folding  and  arrang 
ing — humming  a  soothing  ditty  meantime — and  I  was 
swept  up  bodily  into  a  cloud  of  sleep. 


55 


Chapter 

Now,  Dawn  her  gray  green  mantle  weaves 
To  the  lilt  of  a  low  refrain — 

The  drip,  drip,  drip  of  the  lush  green  leaves 
After  a  night  of  rain. 


Chapter 

THE  night  was  fairly  uneventful.  Once  I 
imagined  I  heard  something  smelling  around 
the  camp,  and  I  remember  having  a  sleepy 
curiosity  as  to  the  size  and  manner  of  the  beast,  and 
whether  he  meant  to  eat  us  and  where  he  would  be 
likely  to  begin.  I  may  say,  too,  that  I  found  some  diffi 
culty  in  turning  over  in  my  sleeping-bag,  and  that  it  did 
rain.  I  don't  know  what  hour  it  was  when  I  was 
awakened  by  the  soft  thudding  drops  just  above  my 
nose,  but  I  remember  that  I  was  glad,  for  there  had 
been  fires  in  the  woods,  and  the  streams  were  said  to 
be  low.  I  satisfied  myself  that  Eddie's  "  patent, 
guaranteed  perfectly  waterproof  "  tent  was  not  leak 
ing  unduly,  and  wriggling  into  a  new  position,  slept. 
It  was  dull  daylight  when  I  awoke.  Through  the 
slit  in  the  tent  I  could  see  the  rain  drizzling  on  the 
dead  campfire.  Eddie — long  a  guest  of  the  forest — 
lost  now  in  the  multiple  folds  of  his  sleeping-bag — 
had  not  stirred.  A  glimpse  of  the  guides'  tent  oppo 
site  revealed  that  the  flap  was  still  tightly  drawn. 
There  was  no  voice  or  stir  of  any  living  creature. 
Only  the  feet  of  the  rain  went  padding  among  the 
leaves  and  over  the  tent. 

Now,  I  am  not  especially  given  to  lying  in  bed, 
and  on  this  particular  morning  any  such  inclination 

59 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


was  rather  less  manifest  than  usual.  I  wanted  to 
spread  myself  out,  to  be  able  to  move  my  arms  away 
from  my  body,  to  whirl  around  and  twist  and  revolve 
a  bit  without  so  much  careful  preparation  and  delib 
erate  movement. 

Yet  there  was  very  little  to  encourage  one  to  get 
up.  Our  campfire — so  late  a  glory  and  an  inspira 
tion — had  become  a  remnant  of  black  ends  and  soggy 
ash.  I  was  not  overhot  as  I  lay,  and  I  had  a  con 
viction  that  I  should  be  less  so  outside  the  sleeping- 
bag,  provided  always  that  I  could  extricate  myself 
from  that  somewhat  clinging,  confining  envelope. 
Neither  was  there  any  immediate  prospect  of  break 
fast — nobody  to  talk  to — no  place  to  go.  I  had 
an  impulse  to  arouse  Eddie  for  the  former  purpose, 
but  there  was  something  about  that  heap  of  canvas 
and  blankets  across  the  way  that  looked  dangerous. 
I  had  never  seen  him  roused  in  his  forest  lair,  and 
I  suspected  that  he  would  be  savage.  I  concluded  to 
proceed  cautiously — in  some  manner  which  might 
lead  him  to  believe  that  the  fall  of  a  drifting  leaf  or 
the  note  of  a  bird  had  been  his  summons.  I  worked 
one  arm  free,  and  reaching  out  for  one  of  my  shoes — 
a  delicate  affair,  with  the  soles  filled  with  spikes  for 
clambering  over  the  rocks — I  tossed  it  as  neatly  as 
possible  at  the  irregular  bunch  opposite,  aiming  a 
trifle  high.  It  fell  with  a  solid,  sickening  thud,  and 
I  shrank  down  into  my  bag,  expecting  an  eruption. 
None  came.  Then  I  was  seized  with  the  fear  that 

60 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


I  had  killed  or  maimed  Eddie.     It  seemed  necessary 
to  investigate. 

I  took  better  aim  this  time  and  let  go  with  the 
other  shoe. 

"  Eddie!  "  I  yelled,  "  are  you  dead?  " 

There  was  a  stir  this  time  and  a  deep  growl.  It 
seemed  to  take  the  form  of  words,  at  length,  and  I 
caught,  or  fancied  I  did,  the  query  as  to  what  time 
it  was;  whereupon  I  laboriously  fished  up  my  watch 
and  announced  in  clear  tones  that  the  hand  was  upon 
the  stroke  of  six.  Also  that  it  was  high  time  for 
children  of  the  forest  to  bestir  themselves. 

At  this  there  was  another  and  a  deeper  growl,  end 
ing  with  a  single  syllable  of  ominous  sound.  I  could 
not  be  sure,  but  heard  through  the  folds  of  a  sleeping- 
bag,  the  word  sounded  a  good  deal  like  "  hell  "  and 
I  had  a  dim  conviction  that  he  was  sending  me  there, 
perhaps  realizing  that  I  was  cold.  Then  he  became 
unconscious  again,  and  I  had  no  more  shoes. 

Yet  my  efforts  had  not  been  without  effect.  There 
was  a  nondescript  stir  in  the  guides'  tent,  and  pres 
ently  the  head  of  Charles,  sometimes  called  the 
Strong,  protruded  a  little  and  was  withdrawn.  Then 
that  of  Del,  the  Stout,  appeared  and  a  little  later  two 
extraordinary  semi-amphibious  figures  issued — word 
less  and  still  rocking  a  little  with  sleep — and  with  that 
deliberate  precision  born  of  long  experience  went 
drabbling  after  fuel  and  water  that  the  morning  fire 
might  kindle  and  the  morning  pot  be  made  to  boil. 

61 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


They  were  clad  in  oilskins,  and  the  drapery  of 
Charles  deserves  special  attention.  It  is  likely  that 
its  original  color  had  been  a  flaunt  of  yellow,  and 
that  it  had  been  bedizened  with  certain  buttonholes 
and  hems  and  selvages  and  things,  such  as  adorn 
garments  in  a  general  way  of  whatever  nature  or  sex. 
That  must  have  been  a  long  time  ago.  It  is  improb 
able  that  the  oldest  living  inhabitant  would  be  able 
to  testify  concerning  these  items. 

Observing  him  thoughtfully  as  he  bent  over  the 
wet  ashes  and  skillfully  cut  and  split  and  presently 
brought  to  flame  the  little  heap  of  wood  he  had  gar 
nered,  there  grew  upon  me  a  realization  of  the  vast 
service  that  suit  of  oilskins  must  have  rendered  to  its 
owners — of  the  countless  storms  that  had  beaten  upon 
it;  of  the  untold  fires  that  had  been  kindled  under  its 
protection;  of  the  dark,  wild  nights  when  it  had 
served  in  fording  torrents  and  in  clambering  over 
slippery  rocks,  indeed  of  all  the  ages  of  wear  and  tear 
that  had  eaten  into  its  seams  and  selvages  and  hues 
since  the  day  when  Noah  first  brought  it  out  of  the 
Ark  and  started  it  down  through  the  several  gener 
ations  which  had  ended  with  our  faithful  Charles, 
the  Strong. 

I  suppose  this  is  just  one  of  those  profitless  reflec 
tions  which  is  likely  to  come  along  when  one  is  still 
tangled  up  in  a  sleeping-bag,  watching  the  tiny  flame 
that  grows  a  little  brighter  and  bigger  each  moment 
and  forces  at  last  a  glow  of  comfort  into  the  tent 

62 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


until  the  day,  after  all,  seems  worth  beginning,  though 
the  impulse  to  begin  it  is  likely  to  have  diminished. 
I  have  known  men,  awake  for  a  long  time,  who  have 
gone  off  to  sleep  during  just  such  morning  specula 
tions,  when  the  flames  grew  bright  and  brighter  and 
crackled  up  through  the  little  heap  of  dry  branches 
and  sent  that  glow  of  luxury  into  the  tent.  I  remem 
ber  seeing  our  guide  adjust  a  stick  at  an  angle  above 
the  fire,  whereby  to  suspend  a  kettle,  and  then,  sud 
denly,  of  being  startled  from  somewhere — I  was  at 
the  club,  I  think,  in  the  midst  of  a  game  of  pool — by 
a  wild  whoop  and  the  spectacle  of  Eddie,  standing 
upright  in  the  little  runway  between  our  beds,  howling 
that  the  proper  moment  for  bathing  had  arrived,  and 
kicking  up  what  seemed  to  me  a  great  and  unnecessary 
stir. 

The  idea  of  bathing  on  such  a  morning  and  in  that 
primitive  costume  had  not,  I  think,  occurred  to  me 
before,  but  I  saw  presently  there  was  nothing  else  for 
it.  A  little  later  I  was  following  Eddie,  cringing  from 
the  cold,  pelting  rain,  limping  gingerly  over  sharp 
sticks  and  pebbles  to  the  water's  edge.  The  lake  was 
shallow  near  the  shore  which  meant  a  fearful  period 
of  wading  before  taking  the  baptismal  plunge  that 
would  restore  one's  general  equilibrium.  It  required 
courage,  too,  for  the  water  was  icy — courage  to  wade 
out  to  the  place,  and  once  there,  to  make  the  plunge. 
I  should  never  have  done  it  if  Eddie  had  not  insisted 
that  according  to  the  standard  text-books  the  day  in 


"  Not  to  take  the  morning  dip     .     .     .     was  to  manifest  a  sad 
lack  of  the  true  camping  spirit." 

every  well-ordered  camp  always  began  with  this  cere 
mony.  Not  to  take  the  morning  dip,  he  said,  was  to 
manifest  a  sad  lack  of  the  true  camping  spirit.  Thus 
prodded,  I  bade  the  world  a  hasty  good-by  and 
headed  for  the  bottom.  A  moment  later  we  were 
splashing  and  puffing  like  seals,  shouting  with  the 
fierce,  delightful  torture  of  it — wideawake  enough 
now,  and  marvelously  invigorated  when  all  was  over. 
We  were  off  after  breakfast — a  breakfast  of  trout 
and  flapjacks — the  latter  with  maple  sirup  in  the 
little  eating  tent.  The  flapjacks  were  Del's  manu 
facture,  and  his  manner  of  tossing  the  final  large  one 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


into  the  air  and  catching  it  in  the  skillet  as  it  fell, 
compelled  admiration. 

The  lake  was  fairly  smooth  and  the  rain  no  longer 
fell.  A  gray  morning — the  surface  of  the  water 
gray — a  gray  mantle  around  the  more  distant  of  the 
islands,  with  here  and  there  sharp  rocks  rising  just 
above  the  depths.  It  was  all  familiar  enough  to  the 
guides,  but  to  me  it  was  a  new  world.  Seated  in  the 
bow  I  swung  my  paddle  joyously,  and  even  with  our 
weighty  load  it  seemed  that  we  barely  touched  the 
water.  One  must  look  out  for  the  rocks,  though,  for 
a  sharp  point  plunged  through  the  bottom  of  a  canoe 
might  mean  shipwreck.  A  few  yards  away,  Eddie 
and  his  guide — light-weight  bodies,  both  of  them — 
kept  abreast,  their  appearance  somehow  suggesting 
two  grasshoppers  on  a  straw. 

It  is  six  miles  across  Kedgeemakoogee  and  during 
the  passage  it  rained.  When  we  were  about  half-way 
over  I  felt  a  drop  or  two  strike  me  and  saw  the  water 
about  the  canoe  spring  up  into  little  soldiers.  A 
moment  later  we  were  struck  on  every  side  and  the 
water  soldiers  were  dancing  in  a  multitude.  Then 
they  mingled  and  rushed  together.  The  green  islands 
were  blotted  out.  The  gates  of  the  sky  swung  wide. 

Of  course  it  was  necessary  to  readjust  matters.  Del 
drew  on  his  oilskins  and  I  reached  for  my  own.  I 
had  a  short  coat,  a  sou'wester,  and  a  pair  of  heavy 
brown  waders,  so  tall  that  they  came  up  under  my 
arms  when  fully  adjusted.  There  was  no  special  diffi- 

65 


"To  put  on  a  pair  of  waders  like  that  in  the  front  end  of  a 
canoe  in  a  pouring  rain  is  no  light  matter." 

culty  in  getting  on  the  hat  and  coat,  but  to  put  on  a 
pair  of  waders  like  that  in  the  front  end  of  a  canoe  in 
a  pouring  rain  is  no  light  matter.  There  seemed  no 
good  place  to  straighten  my  legs  out  in  order  to  get  a 
proper  pull.  To  stand  up  was  to  court  destruction, 
and  when  I  made  an  attempt  to  put  a  leg  over  the 
side  of  the  canoe  Del  admonished  me  fearfully  that 
another  such  move  would  send  us  to  the  bottom  forth 
with.  Once  my  thumbs  pulled  out  of  the  straps  and 
I  tumbled  back  on  the  stores,  the  rain  beating  down 
in  my  face.  I  suppose  the  suddenness  of  the  move 
ment  disturbed  the  balance  of  the  boat  somewhat, 

66 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


for  Del  let  out  a  yell  that  awoke  a  far-away  loon,  who 
replied  dismally.  When  at  last  I  had  the  feet  on,  I 
could  not  get  the  tops  in  place,  for  of  course  there 
was  no  way  to  get  them  anywhere  near  where  they 
really  belonged  without  standing  up.  So  I  had  to 
remain  in  that  half-on  and  half-off  condition,  far  from 
comfortafele,  but  more  or  less  immune  to  wet.  I  real 
ized  what  a  sight  I  must  look,  and  I  could  hardly 
blame  Eddie  for  howling  in  derision  at  me  when  he 
drew  near  enough  to  distinguish  my  outline  through 
the  downpour.  I  also  realized  what  a  poor  rig  I  had 
on  for  swimming,  in  event  of  our  really  capsizing, 
and  I  sat  straight  and  still  and  paddled  hard  for  the 
other  side. 

It  was  not  what  might  be  termed  a  "  prolonged 
and  continuous  downpour."  The  gray  veil  lifted 
from  the  islands.  The  myriad  of  battling  soldiers 
diminished.  Presently  only  a  corporal's  guard  was 
leaping  and  dancing  about  the  canoe.  Then  these 
disappeared.  The  clouds  broke  away.  The  sun 
came.  Ahead  of  us  was  a  green  shore — the  other 
side  of  Kedgeemakoogee  had  been  reached. 


68 


Chapter  Cigijt 

Where  the  trail  leads  back  from  the  water's  edge- 
Tangled  and  overgrown — 

Shoulder  your  load  and  strike  the  road 
Into  the  deep  unknown. 


Chapter  €tsf)t 

WE  were  at  the  beginning  of  our  first  carry, 
now — a  stretch  of  about  two  miles  through 
the  woods.  The  canoes  were  quickly 
unloaded,  and  as  I  looked  more  carefully  at  the  vari 
ous  bags  and  baskets  of  supplies,  I  realized  that  they 
were  constructed  with  a  view  of  being  connected  with 
a  man's  back.  I  had  heard  and  read  a  good  deal 
about  portages  and  I  realized  in  a  general  way  that 
the  canoes  had  to  be  carried  from  one  water  system  to 
another,  but  somehow  I  had  never  considered  the 
baggage.  Naturally  I  did  not  expect  it  to  get  over 
of  its  own  accord,  and  when  I  came  to  consider  the 
matter  I  realized  that  a  man's  back  was  about  the 
only  place  where  it  could  ride  handily  and  with  rea 
sonable  safety.  I  also  realized  that  a  guide's  life  is 
not  altogether  a  holiday  excursion. 

I  felt  sorry  for  the  guides.  I  even  suggested  to 
Eddie  that  he  carry  a  good  many  of  the  things.  I 
pointed  out  that  most  of  them  were  really  his,  anyway, 
and  that  it  was  too  bad  to  make  our  faithful  retainers 
lug  a  drug  store  and  sporting  goods  establishment, 
besides  the  greater  part  of  a  provision  warehouse. 
Eddie  sympathized  with  the  guides,  too.  He  was 
really  quite  pathetic  in  his  compassion  for  them,  but 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


he  didn't  carry  any  of  the  things.  That  is,  any  of 
those  things. 

It  is  the  etiquette  of  portage — of  Nova  Scotia  por 
tage,  at  least — that  the  fisherman  shall  carry  his  own 
sporting  paraphernalia — which  is  to  say,  his  rods,  his 
gun,  if  he  has  one,  his  fishing  basket  and  his  landing 
net.  Also,  perhaps,  any  convenient  bag  of  tackle  or 
apparel  when  not  too  great  an  inconvenience.  It  is 
the  business  of  the  guides  to  transport  the  canoes,  the 
general  outfit,  and  the  stores.  As  this  was  to  be 
rather  a  long  carry,  and  as  more  than  one  trip  would 
be  necessary,  it  was  proposed  to  make  a  half-way 
station  for  luncheon,  at  a  point  where  a  brook  cut 
the  trail. 

But  our  procession  did  not  move  immediately.  In 
the  first  place  one  of  the  canoes  appeared  to  have 
sprung  a  leak,  and  after  our  six-mile  paddle  this  seemed 
a  proper  opportunity  to  rest  and  repair  damages. 
The  bark  craft  was  hauled  out,  a  small  fire  scraped 
together  and  the  pitch  pot  heated  while  the  guides 
pawed  and  squinted  about  the  boat's  bottom  to  find 
the  perforation.  Meantime  I  tried  a  few  casts  in 
the  lake,  from  a  slanting  rock,  and  finally  slipped  in, 
as  was  my  custom.  Then  we  found  that  we  did  not 
wish  to  wait  until  reaching  the  half-way  brook  before 
having  at  least  a  bite  and  sup.  It  was  marshy  and 
weedy  where  we  were  and  no  inviting  place  to  serve 
food,  but  we  were  tolerably  wet,  and  we  had  paddled 
a  good  way.  We  got  out  a  can  of  corned  beef  and 

72 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


a  loaf  of  bread,  and  stood  around  in  the  ooze,  and 
cut  off  chunks  and  chewed  and  gulped  and  worked 
them  down  into  place.  Then  we  said  we  were 
ready,  and  began  to  load  up.  I  experimented  by 
hanging  such  things  as  landing  nets  and  a  rod-bag  on 
my  various  projections  while  my  hands  were  to  be 
occupied  with  my  gun  and  a  tackle-bag.  The  things 
were  not  especially  heavy,  but  they  were  shifty.  I 
foresaw  that  the  rod-bag  would  work  around  under 
my  arm  and  get  in  the  way  of  my  feet,  and  that 
the  landing  nets  would  complicate  matters.  I  tied 
them  all  in  a  solid  bunch  at  last,  with  the  gun  inside. 
This  simplified  the  problem  a  good  deal,  and  was  an 
arrangement  for  which  I  had  reason  to  be  thankful. 

It  was  interesting  to  see  our  guides  load  up. 
Charles,  the  Strong,  had  been  well  named.  He  swung 
a  huge  basket  on  his  back,  his  arms  through  straps 
somewhat  like  those  which  support  an  evening  gown, 
and  a-top  of  this,  other  paraphernalia  was  piled.  I 
have  seen  pack  burros  in  Mexico  that  were  lost  sight 
of  under  their  many  burdens  and  I  remembered  them 
now,  as  our  guides  stood  forth  ready  to  move.  I  still 
felt  sorry  for  them  (the  guides,  of  course)  and  sug 
gested  once  more  to  Eddie  that  he  should  assume 
some  of  their  burdens.  In  fact,  I  was  almost  willing 
to  do  so  myself,  and  when  at  the  last  moment  both 
Charlie  and  Del  stooped  and  took  bundles  in  each 
hand,  I  was  really  on  the  very  point  of  offering  to 
carry  something,  only  there  was  nothing  more  to 

73 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


carry  but  the  canoes,  and  of  course  they  'had  to  be 
left  for  the  next  trip.  I  was  glad,  though,  of  the 
generous  impulse  on  my  part.  There  is  always  com 
fort  in  such  things.  Eddie  and  I  set  out  ahead. 

There  is  something  fine  and  inspiring  about  a  por 
tage.  In  the  first  place,  it  is  likely  to  be  through  a 
deep  wood,  over  a  trail  not  altogether  easy  to  follow. 
Then  there  is  the  fascinating  thought  that  you  are 
cutting  loose  another  link  from  everyday  mankind — 
pushing  a  chapter  deeper  into  the  wilderness,  where 
only  the  more  adventurous  ever  come.  Also,  there  is 
the  romantic  gipsy  feeling  of  having  one's  possessions 
in  such  compass  that  not  only  the  supplies  themselves, 
but  the  very  means  of  transportation  may  be  bodily 
lifted  and  borne  from  one  water  link  to  another  of 
that  chain  which  leads  back  ever  farther  into  the 
unknown. 

I  have  suggested  that  a  portage  trail  is  not  always 
easy  to  follow.  As  a  matter  of  fact  the  chances  are 
that  it  will  seldom  be  easy  to  follow.  It  will  seldom 
be  a  path  fit  for  human  beings.  It  won't  be  even  a 
decent  moose  path,  and  a  moose  can  go  anywhere  that 
a  bird  can.  A  carry  is  meant  to  be  the  shortest  dis 
tance  between  two  given  places  and  it  doesn't  strive 
for  luxury.  It  will  go  under  and  over  logs,  through 
scratchy  thickets  and  gardens  of  poison  ivy.  It  will 
plow  through  swamps  and  quicksands;  it  will  descend 
into  pits;  it  will  skin  along  the  sharp  edge  of  slippery 
rocks  set  up  at  impossible  angles,  so  that  only  a 

74 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


mountain  goat  can  follow  it  without  risking  his  neck. 
I  believe  it  would  climb  a  tree  if  a  big  one  stood 
directly  in  its  path. 

We  did  not  get  through  with  entire  safety.  The 
guides,  shod  in  their  shoe-packs,  trained  to  the  busi 
ness,  went  along  safely  enough,  though  they  lurched 
a  good  deal  under  their  heavy  cargoes  and  seemed 
always  on  the  verge  of  disaster.  Eddie  and  I  did 
not  escape.  I  saw  Eddie  slip,  and  I  heard  him  come 
down  with  a  grunt  which  I  suspected  meant  damage. 
It  proved  a  serious  mishap,  for  it  was  to  one  of  his 
reels,  a  bad  business  so  early  in  the  game.  I  fell,  too, 
but  I  only  lost  some  small  areas  of  skin  which  I  knew 
Eddie  would  replace  with  joy  from  a  bottle  in  his 
apothecary  bag. 

But  there  were  things  to  be  seen  on  that  two-mile 
carry.  A  partridge  flew  up  and  whirred  away 
into  the  bushes.  A  hermit  thrush  was  calling  from 
the  greenery,  and  by  slipping  through  very  carefully 
we  managed  to  get  a  sight  of  his  dark,  brown  body. 
Then  suddenly  Eddie  called  to  me  to  look,  and  I 
found  him  pointing  up  into  a  tree. 

"Porky,  Porky!"  he  was  saying,  by  which  I 
guessed  he  had  found  a  porcupine,  for  I  had  been 
apprised  of  the  numbers  in  these  woods.  "  Come, 
here's  a  shot  for  you,"  he  added,  as  I  drew  nearer. 
"  Porcupines  damage  a  lot  of  trees  and  should  be 
killed." 

I  gazed  up  and  distinguished  a  black  bunch  clinging 

75 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


to  the  body  of  a  fairly  large  spruce,  near  the  top. 
"  He  doesn't  seem  to  be  damaging  that  tree  much," 
I  said. 

"  No,  but  he  will.  They  kill  ever  so  many.  The 
State  of  Maine  pays  a  bounty  for  their  scalps." 

I  looked  up  again.  Porky  seemed  to  be  inoffensive 
enough,  and  my  killing  blood  was  not  much  aroused. 

"  But  the  hunters  and  logmen  destroy  a  good  many 
more  trees  with  their  fires,"  I  argued.  "  Why  doesn't 
the  State  of  Maine  and  the  Province  of  Nova  Scotia 
pay  a  bounty  for  the  scalps  of  a  few  hunters  and 
logmen?  " 

But  Eddie  was  insistent.  It  was  in  the  line  of 
duty,  he  urged,  to  destroy  porcupines.  They  were  of 
no  value,  except,  perhaps,  to  eat. 

"  Will  you  agree  to  eat  this  one  if  I  shoot  him?  " 
I  asked,  unbundling  my  rifle  somewhat  reluctantly. 

"  Of  course — that's  understood." 

I  think  even  then  I  would  have  spared  Porky's  life, 
but  at  that  moment  he  ran  a  little  way  up  the  tree. 
There  was  something  about  that  slight  movement  that 
stirred  the  old  savage  in  me.  I  threw  my  rifle  to  my 
shoulder,  and  with  hasty  aim  fired  into  the  center  of 
the  black  bunch. 

I  saw  it  make  a  quick,  quivering  jump,  slip  a  little, 
and  cling  fast.  There  was  no  stopping  now.  A 
steady  aim  at  the  black  ball  this  time,  and  a  second 
shot,  followed  by  another  convulsive  start,  a  long 
slide,  then  a  heavy  thudding  fall  at  our  feet — a  writh- 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


ing  and  a  twisting — a  moaning  and  grieving  as  of  a 
stricken  child. 

And  it  was  not  so  easy  to  stop  this.  I  sent  shot 
after  shot  into  the  quivering  black,  pin-cushioned  ball 
before  it  was  finally  still — its  stained,  beautifully 
pointed  quills  scattered  all  about.  When  it  was  over, 
I  said: 

"  Well,  Eddie,  they  may  eat  up  the  whole  of  Nova 
Scotia,  if  they  want  to — woods,  islands  and  all,  but 
I'll  never  shoot  another,  unless  I'm  starving." 

We  had  none  of  us  starved  enough  to  eat  that 
porcupine.  In  the  first  place  he  had  to  be  skinned, 
and  there  seemed  no  good  place  to  begin.  The  guides, 
when  they  came  up,  informed  us  that  it  was  easy 
enough  to  do  when  you  knew  how,  and  that  the 
Indians  knew  how  and  considered  porcupine  a  great 
delicacy.  But  we  were  not  Indians,  at  least  not  in  the 
ethnological  sense,  and  the  delicacy  in  this  instance 
applied  only  to  our  appetites.  I  could  see  that  Eddie 
was  anxious  to  break  his  vow,  now  that  his  victim  was 
really  dead  by  my  hand.  We  gathered  up  a  few  of 
the  quills — gingerly,  for  a  porcupine  quill  once  in  the 
flesh,  is  said  to  work  its  way  to  the  heart — and  passed 
on,  leaving  the  black  pin  cushion  lying  where  it  fell. 
Perhaps  Porky's  death  saved  one  or  two  more  trees 
for  the  next  Nova  Scotia  fire. 

There  were  no  trout  for  luncheon  at  our  half-way 
halt.  The  brook  there  was  a  mere  rivulet,  and  we 
had  not  kept  the  single  small  fish  caught  that  morn- 

77 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


ing.  Still  I  did  not  mind.  Not  that  I  was  tired  of 
trout  so  soon,  but  I  began  to  suspect  that  it  would 
require  nerve  and  resolution  to  tackle  them  three 
times  a  day  for  a  period  of  weeks,  and  that  it  might 
be  just  as  well  to  start  rather  gradually,  working  in 
other  things  from  time  to  time. 

I  protested,  however,  when  Del  produced  a  can 
of  Columbia  River  salmon.  That,  I  said,  was  a  gross 
insult  to  every  fish  in  the  Nova  Scotia  waters.  Canned 
salmon  on  a  fishing  trip !  The  very  thought  of  it  was 
an  offense;  I  demanded  that  it  be  left  behind  with 
the  porcupine.  Never,  I  declared,  would  I  bemean 
myself  by  eating  that  cheap  article  of  commerce — that 
universally  indigenous  fish  food — here  in  the  home  of 
the  chief,  the  prince,  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  all  fishes — 
the  Nova  Scotia  trout. 

So  Del  put  the  can  away,  smiling  a  little,  and  pro 
duced  beans.  That  was  different.  One  may  eat 
beans  anywhere  under  the  wide  sky. 


Cimpter  JStne 

The  black  rock  juts  on  the  hidden  pool 
And  the  waters  are  dim  and  deep} 

Oh,  lightly  tread — 'tis  a  royal  bed, 
And  a  king  lies  there  asleep. 


Chapter 

IT  was  well  into  the  afternoon  before  the  canoes 
reached  the  end  of  the  carry — poking  out 
through  the  green — one  on  the  shoulders  of  each 
guide,  inverted  like  long  shields,  such  as  an  ancient 
race  might  have  used  as  a  protection  from  arrows. 
Eddie  and  I,  meantime,  had  been  employed  getting 
a  mess  of  frogs,  for  it  was  swampy  just  there,  and 
frogs,  mosquitoes  and  midges  possessed  the  locality. 
We  anointed  for  the  mosquitoes  and  "  no-see-ums," 
as  the  midges  are  called  by  the  Indians,  and  used  our 
little  rifles  on  the  frogs. 

I  wonder,  by  the  way,  what  mosquitoes  were  made 
for.  Other  people  have  wondered  that  before,  but 
you  can't  overdo  the  thing.  Maybe  if  we  keep  on 
wondering  we  shall  find  out.  Knowledge  begins  that 
way,  and  it  will  take  a  lot  of  speculation  to  solve  the 
mosquito  mystery. 

I  can't  think  of  anything  that  I  could  do  without 
easier  than  the  mosquito.  He  seems  to  me  a  creature 
wholly  devoid  of  virtues.  He  is  a  glutton,  a  pois 
oner,  a  spreader  of  disease,  a  dispenser  of  disturbing 
music.  That  last  is  the  hardest  to  forgive.  If  he 
would  only  be  still  I  could  overlook  the  other  things. 
I  wonder  if  he  will  take  his  voice  with  him  into  the 

81 


The   Tent   Dwellers 


next  world.  I  should  like  to  know,  too,  which  place 
he  is  bound  for.  I  should  like  to  know,  so  I  could 
take  the  other  road.* 

Across  Mountain  Lake  was  not  far,  and  then  fol 
lowed  another  short  carry — another  link  of  removal 
— to  a  larger  lake,  Pescawess.  It  was  nearly  five 
miles  across  Pescawess,  but  we  made  good  time,  for 
there  was  a  fair  wind.  Also  we  had  the  knowledge 
that  Pescawah  Brook  flows  in  on  the  other  side,  and 
the  trout  there  were  said  to  be  large  and  not  often 
disturbed. 

We  camped  a  little  below  this  brook,  and  while  the 
tents  were  going  up  Eddie  and  I  took  one  of  the 
canoes  and  slipped  away  past  an  island  or  two,  among 
the  strewn  bowlders  at  the  stream's  mouth,  pausing 
to  cast  a  little  here  and  there,  though  at  first  with  no 
other  result  than  to  get  our  lines  in  a  mess  together. 

"  Now,  say,  old  man,"  Eddie  began,  as  my  line 
made  a  turn  around  his  neck  and  a  half-dozen  twists 
around  his  tackle,  the  whole  dropping  in  a  heap  in  the 
water,  "  you  mustn't  cast  like  that.  You  should  use 
the  treetop  cast — straight  up  in  the  air,  when  there's 
a  man  behind  you.  Don't  you  know  you  might  lacer- 

*  When  this  chapter  appeared  in  The  Outing  Magazine  Frederic  Remington 
wrote  as  follows: 

"My  dear  Paine:  Just  read  your  Outing  article  on  the  woods  and  your 
speculation  on  'why  mosquitoes  were  made,'  etc.  I  know  the  answer.  They 
were  created  to  aid  civilization — otherwise,  no  man  not  an  idiot  would  live  any 
where  else  than  in  the  woods." 

I  am  naturally  glad  to  have  this  word  of  wisdom  from  an  authority  like 
Remington,  but  I  still  think  that  Providence  could  have  achieved  the  same 
result  and  somehow  managed  to  leave  the  mosquito  out  of  it. 

82 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


ate  a  fellow's  ear,  or  put  a  hook  through  his  lip,  or 
his  nose,  or  something?  " 

I  said  that  I  was  sorry,  and  that  if  he  would  give 
me  a  few  points  on  the  treetop  cast,  and  then  avoid 
sitting  in  the  treetops  as  much  as  possible  himself  I 
thought  there  would  be  no  further  danger. 

He  was  not  altogether  pacified.  The  lines  were  in 
a  bad  tangle  and  he  said  it  was  wasting  precious  time 
to  be  fooling  that  way.  Clearly  two  men  could  not 
fish  from  one  canoe  and  preserve  their  friendship,  and 
after  our  lines  were  duly  parted  and  Eddie  had 
scolded  me  sufficiently,  we  went  ashore  just  below 
where  the  swift  current  tumbles  in,  and  made  our  way 
to  the  wide,  deep,  rock-bound  pools  above.  The 
going  was  pretty  thick  and  scratchy,  and  one  had  to 
move  deliberately. 

Eddie  had  more  things  to  carry  than  I  did,  for  he 
had  brought  his  gun  and  his  long-handled  net,  and 
these,  with  his  rod,  set  up  and  properly  geared  with 
a  long  leader  and  two  flies,  worried  him  a  good  deal. 
The  net  had  a  way  of  getting  hung  on  twigs.  The 
line  and  leader  displayed  a  genius  for  twisting  around 
small  but  tough  branches  and  vines,  the  hooks  caught 
in  unexpected  places,  and  the  gun  was  possessed  to 
get  between  his  legs.  When  I  had  time  to  consider 
him,  he  was  swearing  steadily  and  I  think  still  blam 
ing  me  for  most  of  his  troubles,  though  the  saints 
know  I  was  innocent  enough  and  not  without  diffi 
culties  of  my  own.  Chiefly,  I  was  trying  to  avoid 

83 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


poison  ivy,  which  is  my  bane  and  seemed  plentiful  in 
this  particular  neck  of  the  woods. 

We  were  out  at  last,  and  the  wide,  dark  pool, 
enclosed  by  great  black  bowlders  and  sloping  slabs 
of  stone,  seemed  as  if  it  might  repay  our  efforts.  Not 
for  years,  maybe,  had  an  artificial  fly  been  cast  in  that 
water.  Perhaps  Eddie  was  still  annoyed  with  me, 
for  he  pushed  farther  up  to  other  pools,  and  was 
presently  lost  to  view. 

I  was  not  sorry  of  this,  for  it  may  be  remembered 
that  I  had  thus  far  never  caught  a  trout  by  casting 
in  open,  smooth  water,  and  I  was  willing  to  practice 
a  little  alone.  I  decided  to  work  deliberately,  without 
haste  and  excitement,  and  to  get  my  flies  caught  in 
the  treetops  as  infrequently  as  possible.  I  adjusted 
them  now,  took  a  good  look  behind  and  tossed  my 
cast  toward  the  other  side  of  the  dark  pool.  I  thought 
I  did  it  rather  well,  too,  and  I  dragged  the  flies  with 
a  twitching  motion,  as  I  had  seen  Eddie  do  it,  but 
nothing  happened.  If  there  were  trout  anywhere  in 
the  world,  they  would  be  in  a  pool  like  this,  and  if 
there  was  ever  an  evening  for  them  it  was  now.  It 
was  in  the  nature  of  probability  that  Eddie  would 
come  back  with  a  good  string,  and  I  could  not  let 
him  find  me  a  confessed  failure.  So  once  more  I  sent 
the  flies  out  over  the  pool — a  little  farther  this  time, 
and  twitched  them  a  little  more  carefully,  but  I  might 
have  been  fishing  in  a  tub,  so  far  as  any  tangible  fish 
were  concerned. 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


A  little  more  line  and  a  reckless  back  cast  landed 
my  tail  fly  in  a  limb — a  combination  which  required 
time  and  patience  to  disengage.  By  the  time  I  had 
worked  out  the  puzzle  it  began  to  seem  like  a  warm 
evening.  Then  I  snapped  the  flies  into  several  differ 
ent  corners  of  the  pool,  got  hung  again  on  the  same 
limb,  jerked  and  broke  the  fly  and  repeated  some  of 
the  words  I  had  learned  from  Eddie  as  we  came 
through  the  brush. 

I  was  cooler  after  that,  and  decided  to  put  on  a 
new  and  different  fly.  I  thought  a  Jenny  Lind  would 
be  about  the  thing,  and  pretty  soon  was  slapping  it 
about — at  first  hopefully,  then  rashly.  Then  in  mere 
desperation  I  changed  the  top  fly  and  put  on  a  Mon 
treal.  Of  course  I  wouldn't  catch  anything.  I  never 
would  catch  anything,  except  by  trolling,  as  any  other 
duffer,  or  even  a  baby  might,  but  I  would  have  fun 
with  the  flies,  anyway.  So  the  Montreal  went  caper 
ing  out  over  the  pool,  landing  somewhere  amid  the 
rocks  on  the  other  side.  And  then  all  at  once  I  had 
my  hands  full  of  business,  for  there  was  a  leap  and  a 
splash,  and  a  z-z-z-t  of  the  reel,  and  a  second  later 
my  rod  was  curved  like  a  buggy  whip,  the  line  as  taut 
as  wire  and  weaving  and  swaying  from  side  to  side 
with  a  live,  heavy  body,  the  body  of  a  trout — a  real 
trout — hooked  by  me  with  a  fly,  cast  on  a  quiet 
pool. 

I  wouldn't  have  lost  that  fish  for  money.  But  I 
was  deadly  afraid  of  doing  so.  A  good  thing  for  me, 

85 


Tent  Dwellers 


then,  my  practice  in  landing,  of  the  evening  before. 
"  Easy,  now — easy,"  I  said  to  myself,  just  as  Del  had 
done.  "  If  you  lose  this  fish  you're  a  duffer,  sure 
enough;  also  a  chump  and  several  other  undesirable 
things.  Don't  hurry  him — don't  give  him  unneces 
sary  line  in  this  close  place  where  there  may  be  snags 
— don't,  above  all  things,  let  him  get  any  slack  on  you. 
Just  a  little  line,  now — a  few  inches  will  do — and 
keep  the  tip  of  your  rod  up.  If  you  point  it  at  him 
and  he  gets  a  straight  pull  he  will  jump  off,  sure,  or 
he  will  rush  and  you  cannot  gather  the  slack.  Work 
him  toward  you,  now,  toward  your  feet,  close  in — 
your  net  has  a  short  handle,  and  is  suspended  around 
your  neck  by  a  rubber  cord.  The  cord  will  stretch,  of 
course,  but  you  can  never  reach  him  over  there. 
Don't  mind  the  reel — you  have  taken  up  enough  line. 
You  can't  lift  out  a  fish  like  that  on  a  four-ounce 
rod — on  any  rod  short  of  a  hickory  sapling.  Work 
him  toward  you,  you  gump !  Bring  your  rod  up 
straighter — straighter — straight !  Now  for  the  net 
— carefully — oh,  you  clumsy  duffer,  to  miss  him! 
Don't  you  know  that  you  can't  thrash  him  into  the 
net  like  that? — that  you  must  dip  the  net  under  him? 
I  suppose  you  thought  you  were  catching  mice.  You 
deserve  to  lose  him  altogether.  Once  more,  now,  he's 
right  at  your  feet — a  king !  " 

Two  long  backward  steps  after  that  dip,  for  I  must 
be  certain  that  he  was  away  from  the  water's  edge. 
Then  I  bumped  into  something — something  soft  that 

86 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


laughed.  It  was  Eddie,  and  he  had  two  fish  in  his 
landing  net. 

"Bully!"  he  said.  "  You  did  it  first-rate,  only 
you  don't  need  to  try  to  beat  him  to  death  with  the 
landing  net.  Better  than  mine,"  he  added,  as  I  took 
my  trout  off  the  fly.  "  Suppose  now  we  go  below. 
I've  taken  a  look  and  there's  a  great  pool,  right  where 
the  brook  comes  out.  We  can  get  to  it  in  the  canoe. 
I'll  handle  the  canoe  while  you  fish." 

That,  also,  is  Eddie's  way.  He  had  scolded  me 
and  he  would  make  amends.  He  had  already  taken 
down  his  rod,  and  we  made  our  way  back  through  the 
brush  without  much  difficulty,  though  I  was  still  hot 
with  effort  and  excitement,  and  I  fear  a  little  careless 
about  the  poison  ivy.  A  few  minutes  later,  Eddie, 
who  handles  a  canoe — as  he  does  everything  else 
pertaining  to  the  woods — with  grace  and  skill,  had 
worked  our  craft  among  the  rocks  into  the  wide,  swift 
water  that  came  out  from  under  a  huge  fallen  log — 
the  mouth  of  Pescawah  Brook. 

"  Cast  there,"  he  said,  pointing  to  a  spot  just 
below  the  log. 

Within  twenty  minutes  from  that  time  I  had 
learned  more  about  fishing — real  trout  fishing — than 
I  had  known  before  in  all  my  life.  I  had,  in  Eddie, 
a  peerless  instructor,  and  I  had  such  water  for  a  drill 
ground  as  is  not  found  in  every  day's,  or  every  week's, 
or  every  month's  travel.  Besides,  there  were  fish. 
Singly  and  in  pairs  they  came — great,  beautiful,  mot- 

8? 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


tied  fellows — sometimes  leaping  clear  of  the  water 
like  a  porpoise,  to  catch  the  fly  before  it  fell.  There 
were  none  less  than  a  pound,  and  many  over  that 
weight.  When  we  had  enough  for  supper  and  break 
fast — a  dozen,  maybe — we  put  back  the  others  that 
came,  as  soon  as  taken  from  the  hook.  The  fishing 
soon  ended  then,  for  I  believe  the  trout  have  some 
means  of  communication,  and  one  or  two  trout 
returned  to  a  pool  will  temporarily  discourage  the 
others.  It  did  not  matter.  I  had  had  enough,  and 
once  more,  thanks  to  Eddie,  returned  to  the  camp, 
jubilant. 


88 


Chapter 

Where  the  path  is  thick  and  the  branches  twine 

I  pray  you,  friend,  beware! 
For  the  noxious  breath  of  a  lurking  vine 

May  wither  your  gladness  there. 


Chapter 

IT  was  raining  next  morning,  but  that  was  not  the 
worst.  During  the  night  I  had  awakened  with 
a  curious,  but  not  entirely  unfamiliar  sensation 
about  one  of  my  eyes.  There  was1  a  slight  irritant, 
itching  tendency,  and  the  flesh  felt  puffy  to  the  touch. 
I  tried  to  believe  it  was  imagination,  and  went  to 
sleep  again. 

But  there  was  no  doubt  next  morning.  Imagina 
tion  is  a  taunting  jade,  but  I  don't  believe  she  could 
close  one  of  my  eyes  and  fatten  up  the  other — not  in 
so  short  a  time.  It  was  poison  ivy — that  was  what  it 
was — and  I  had  it  bad. 

When  Eddie  woke,  which  he  did,  finally,  he  took 
one  look  at  me  and  dove  back  into  his  sleeping  bag 
out  of  pure  fear.  He  said  I  was  a  sight,  and  he  was 
correct.  Our  one  looking-glass  was  not  big  enough 
to  hold  all  of  even  one  eye,  but  taking  my  features  in 
sections  I  could  see  that  he  had  not  overstated  my 
appearance.  Perhaps  the  situation  was  amusing,  too 
— at  least  Eddie,  and  even  the  guides,  professed  to 
be  entertained — but  for  me,  huddled  against  one  side 
of  a  six  by  eight  tent — a  tent  otherwise  packed  with 
bags  and  bundles  and  traps  of  various  kinds — Eddie's 
things,  mostly,  and  Eddie  himself  among  them — with 


"  Our  one  looking-glass  was  not  big  enough  to  hold  all  of  even 
one  eye." 

a  chill  rain  coming  down  outside,  and  with  a  face 
swollen  and  aching  in  a  desperate  way  with  poison, 
the  quality  of  the  humor  to  me  seemed  strained  when 
I  tried  to  distinguish  it  with  the  part  of  an  eye  I  had 
left. 

Eddie  meantime  had  dived  down  into  his  bag  of 
remedies,  happy  to  have  a  chance  to  use  any  or  all 
of  them,  and  was  laying  them  out  on  his  sleeping  bag 
in  front  of  him — in  his  lap,  as  it  were,  for  he  had  not 

92 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


yet  arisen — reading  the  labels  and  wondering  which 
he  should  try  on  me  first.  I  waited  a  little,  then  I 
said: 

"  Never  mind  those,  Eddie,  give  me  your  alcohol 
and  witch  hazel." 

But  then  came  an  embarrassing  moment.  Running 
his  eye  over  the  bottles  and  cans  Eddie  was  obliged  to 
confess  that  not  one  of  them  contained  either  alcohol 
or  witch  hazel. 

"  Eddie,"  I  said  reproachfully,  "  can  it  be,  in  a 
drug  store  like  that,  there  is  neither  alcohol  nor  witch 
hazel?" 

He  nodded  dismally. 

"  I  meant  to  bring  them,"  he  said,  "  but  the  triple 
extract  of  gelsemium  would  do  such  a  lot  of  things, 
and  I  thought  I  didn't  need  them,  and  then  you  made 
fun  of  that,  and — and " 

"  Never  mind,  Eddie,"  I  said,  "  I  have  an  inspira 
tion.  If  alcohol  cures  it,  maybe  whisky  will,  and 
thank  Heaven  we  did  bring  the  whisky !  " 

We  remained  two  days  in  that  camp  and  I  followed 
up  the  whisky  treatment  faithfully.  It  rained  most 
of  the  time,  so  the  delay  did  not  matter.  Indeed 
it  was  great  luck  that  we  were  not  held  longer  by  that 
distressing  disorder  which  comes  of  the  malignant 
three-leaved  plant  known  as  mercury,  or  poison  ivy. 
Often  it  has  disqualified  me  for  a  week  or  more.  But 
the  whisky  treatment  was  a  success.  Many  times  a 
day  I  bathed  my  face  in  the  pure  waters  of  the  lake 

93 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


and  then  with  the  spirits — rye  or  Scotch,  as  happened 
to  be  handy.  By  the  afternoon  of  the  first  day  I  could 
see  to  put  sirup  on  my  flapjacks,  and  once  between 
showers  I  felt  able  to  go  out  with  Eddie  in  the  canoe, 
during  which  excursion  he  took  a  wonderful  string 
of  trout  in  a  stagnant-looking,  scummy  pool  where  no 
one  would  ever  expect  trout  to  lie,  and  where  no  one 
but  Eddie  could  have  taken  them  at  all. 

By  the  next  morning,  after  a  night  of  sorrow — for 
my  face  always  pained  and  itched  worse  when  every 
body  was  in  bed  and  still,  with  nothing  to  soothe  me 
but  the  eternal  drip,  drip  from  the  boughs  and  from 
the  eaves  of  the  tent — the  swelling  was  still  further 
reduced,  and  I  felt  able  to  travel.  And  I  wish  to  add 
here  in  all  seriousness  that  -whatever  may  be  your 
scruples  against  the  use  of  liquors,  don't  go  into  the 
woods  without  whisky — rye  or  Scotch,  according  to 
preference.  Alcohol,  of  course,  is  good  for  poison 
ivy,  but  whisky  is  better.  Maybe  it  is  because  of  the 
drugs  that  wicked  men  are  said  to  put  into  it.  Be 
sides,  whisky  has  other  uses.  The  guides  told  us  of 
one  perfectly  rigid  person  who,  when  he  had  discov 
ered  that  whisky  was  being  included  in  his  camp  sup 
plies,  had  become  properly  incensed,  and  commanded 
that  it  be  left  at  home.  The  guides  had  pleaded  that 
he  need  not  drink  any  of  it,  that  they  would  attend 
to  that  part  of  what  seemed  to  them  a  necessary  camp 
duty,  but  he  was  petrified  in  his  morals,  and  the 
whisky  remained  behind. 

94 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


Well,  they  struck  a  chilly  snap,  and  it  rained.  It 
was  none  of  your  little  summer  landscape  rains, 
either.  It  was  a  deadly  cold,  driving,  drenching 
saturation.  Men  who  had  built  their  houses  on  the 
sand,  and  had  no  whisky,  were  in  a  bad  fix.  The 
waves  rose  and  the  tents  blew  down,  and  the  rigid, 
fossilized  person  had  to  be  carried  across  an  over 
flowed  place  on  the  back  of  a  guide,  lifting  up  his 
voice  meanwhile  in  an  effort  to  convince  the  Almighty 
that  it  was  a  mistake  to  let  it  rain  at  this  particular 
time,  and  calling  for  whisky  at  every  step. 

It  is  well  to  carry  one's  morals  into  the  woods,  but 
if  I  had  to  leave  either  behind,  I  should  take  the 
whisky. 

It  was  a  short  carry  to  Lake  Pescawah.  Beyond 
that  water  we  carried  again  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
to  a  lake  called  Pebbleloggitch — perhaps  for  the  rea 
son  that  the  Indian  who  picked  out  the  name  couldn't 
find  a  harder  one.  From  Pebbleloggitch  we  made 
our  way  by  a  long  canal-like  stillwater  through  a  land 
wherein  no  man — not  even  an  Indian,  perhaps — has 
ever  made  his  home,  for  it  lies  through  a  weird,  lonely 
marsh — a  sort  of  meadow  which  no  reaper  ever  har 
vested,  where  none  but  the  wild  moose  ever  feeds. 

We  were  nearing  the  edge  of  the  unknown  now. 
One  of  the  guides,  Del,  I  think,  had  been  through 
this  stillwater  once  before,  a  long  time  ago.  At  the 
end  of  it,  he  knew,  lay  the  upper  Shelburne  River, 
which  was  said  to  flow  through  a  sheet  of  water  called 

95 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


Irving  Lake.  But  where  the  river  entered  the  lake 
and  where  it  left  it  was  for  us  to  learn.  Already 
forty  miles  or  more  from  our  starting  point,  straight 
into  the  wilderness,  we  were  isolated  from  all  man 
kind,  and  the  undiscovered  lay  directly  before.  At 
the  end  of  the  stillwater  Del  said : 

"  Well,  gentlemen,  from  this  on  you  know  as  much 
of  the  country  as  I  do.  All  I  know  is  what  I've  heard, 
and  that's  not  much.  I  guess  most  of  it  we'll  have 
to  learn  for  ourselves." 


Chapter  Cleben 

By  lonely  tarn,  mid  thicket  deep, 
The  she-moose  comes  to  bear 

Her  sturdy  young,  and  she  doth  keep 
It  safely  guarded  there. 


Chapter  Cleben 

WE  got  any  amount  of  fly-casting  in  the 
Pebbleloggitch  stillwater,  but  no  trout.  I 
kept  Del  dodging  and  twice  I  succeeded 
in  hooking  him,  though  not  in  a  vital  spot.  I  could 
have  done  it,  however,  if  he  had  sat  still  and  given 
me  a  fair  chance.  I  could  land  Del  even  with  the 
treetop  cast,  but  the  trout  refused  to  be  allured.  As 
a  rule,  trout  would  not  care  to  live  in  a  place  like  that. 
There  would  not  be  enough  excitement  and  activity. 
A  trout  prefers  a  place  where  the  water  is  busy — 
where  the  very  effort  of  keeping  from  being  smashed 
and  battered  against  the  rocks  insures  a  good  circula 
tion  and  a  constitution  like  a  steel  spring.  I  have 
taken  trout  out  of  water  that  would  have  pulverized  a 
golf  ball  in  five  minutes.  The  fiercer  the  current — 
the  greater  the  tumult — the  more  cruel  and  savage  the 
rocks,  the  better  place  it  is  for  trout. 

Neither  do  I  remember  that  we  took  anything  in 
the  Shelburne  above  Irving  Lake,  for  it  was  a  good 
deal  like  the  stillwater,  with  only  a  gentle  riffle  here 
and  there.  Besides,  the  day  had  become  chill,  and  a 
mist  had  fallen  upon  this  lonely  world — a  wet  white, 
drifting  mist  that  was  closely  akin  to  rain.  On  such 
a  day  one  does  not  expect  trout  to  rise,  and  is  seldom 
disappointed.  Here  and  there,  where  the  current  was 

99 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


slow-moving  and  unruffled,  Eddie,  perhaps,  would 
have  tried  his  dry  flies,  but  never  a  trout  was  seen 
to  break  water,  and  it  is  one  of  the  tenets  of  dry-fly 
fishing  that  a  cast  may  only  be  made  where  a  trout 
has  been  seen  to  rise — even  then,  only  after  a  good 
deal  of  careful  maneuvering  on  shore  to  reach  the 
proper  spot  on  the  bank  without  breaking  the  news  to 
the  trout.  It  wasn't  a  pleasant  time  to  go  wriggling 
through  marsh  grass  and  things  along  the  shore, 
so  it  is  just  as  well  that  there  was  no  excuse  for 
doing  it. 

As  it  was,  we  paddled  rather  silently  down  the 
still  river,  considerably  impressed  with  the  thought 
that  we  were  entering  a  land  to  us  unknown — that 
for  far  and  far  in  every  direction,  beyond  the  white 
mist  that  shut  us  in  and  half-obliterated  the  world,  it 
was  likely  that  there  was  no  human  soul  that  was  not 
of  our  party  and  we  were  quieted  by  the  silence  and 
the  loneliness  on  every  hand. 

Where  the  river  entered  the  lake  there  was  no  dash 
ing,  tumbling  water.  In  fact,  we  did  not  realize  that 
we  had  reached  the  lake  level  until  the  shores  on 
either  hand  receded,  slowly  at  first,  and  then  broadly 
widening,  melted  away  and  were  half  lost  in  the  mist. 

The  feeling  grew  upon  me,  all  at  once,  that  we 
were  very  high  here.  There  were  no  hills  or  ridges 
that  we  could  see,  and  the  outlines  of  such  timber 
as  grew  along  the  shore  seemed  low.  It  was  as  if 
we  had  reached  the  top  of  the  world,  where  there 

100 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


were  no  more  hills — where  the  trees  had  been  obliged 
to  struggle  up  to  our  altitude,  barely  to  fringe  us 
round.  As  for  course  now,  we  had  none.  Our  map 
was  of  the  vaguest  sort.  Where  the  outlet  was  we 
could  only  surmise. 

In  a  general  way  it  was  supposed  to  be  at  the 
"  other  end  "  of  the  lake,  where  there  was  said  to  be 
an  old  dam,  built  when  the  region  was  lumbered,  long 
ago.  But  as  to  the  shape  of  the  lake,  and  just  where 
that  "  other  end  "  might  lie,  when  every  side  except 
the  bit  of  shore  nearest  at  hand  was  lost  in  the  wet, 
chill  mist,  were  matters  for  conjecture  and  experiment. 
We  paddled  a  little  distance  and  some  islands  came 
out  of  the  gray  veil  ahead — green  Nova  Scotia 
islands,  with  their  ledges  of  rock,  some  underbrush 
and  a  few  sentinel  pines.  We  ran  in  close  to  these, 
our  guides  looking  for  moose  or  signs  of  them. 

I  may  say  here  that  no  expedition  in  Nova  Scotia 
is  a  success  without  having  seen  at  least  one  moose. 
Of  course,  in  the  hunting  season,  the  moose  is  the 
prime  object,  but  such  is  the  passion  for  this  animal 
among  Nova  Scotia  guides,  that  whatever  the  season 
or  the  purpose  of  the  expedition,  and  however  trium 
phant  its  result,  it  is  accounted  a  disappointment  and 
a  failure  by  the  natives  when  it  ends  without  at  least 
a  glimpse  of  a  moose. 

We  were  in  wonderful  moose  country  now;  the 
uninvaded  wild,  where  in  trackless  bog  and  swamp, 
or  on  the  lonely  and  forgotten  islands  the  she-moose 

101 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


secludes  herself  to  bear  and  rear  her  young.  That 
Charlie  and  Del  were  more  absorbed  in  the  possibility 
of  getting  a  sight  of  these  great,  timid,  vanishing 
visions  of  animal  life — and  perhaps  a  longer  view  of 
a  little  black,  bleating  calf — than  in  any  exploration 
for  the  other  end  of  the  Shelburne  River  was  evident. 
They  clung  and  hovered  about  those  islands,  poking 
the  canoes  into  every  nook  and  corner,  speaking  in 
whispers,  and  sitting  up  straight  at  sight  of  any  dark- 
looking  stump  or  bunch  of  leaves.  Eddie,  too,  seemed 
a  good  deal  interested  in  the  moose  idea.  I  discov 
ered  presently  that  he  was  ambitious  to  send  a  speci 
men  of  a  moose  calf,  dead  or  alive,  to  the  British 
Museum,  and  would  improve  any  opportunity  to 
acquire  that  asset. 

I  may  say  that  I  was  opposed  to  any  such  purpose. 
I  am  overfond  of  Eddie,  and  I  wanted  him  to  have  a 
good  standing  with  the  museum  people,  but  I  did  not 
like  the  idea  of  slaughtering  a  little  calf  moose  before 
its  mother's  very  eyes,  and  I  did  not  approve  of  its 
capture,  either.  Even  if  the  mother  moose  could  be 
convinced  that  our  intentions  were  good,  and  was 
willing  to  have  her  offspring  civilized  and  in  the 
British  Museum,  or  Zoo,  or  some  other  distinguished 
place,  I  still  opposed  the  general  scheme.  It  did  not 
seem  to  me  that  a  calf  moose  tied  either  outside  oxr 
inside  of  our  tent  for  a  period  of  weeks,  to  bleat  and 
tear  around,  and  to  kick  over  and  muss  up  things 
generally,  would  be  a  proper  feature  to  add  to  a  well- 

102 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


ordered  camp,  especially  if  it  kept  on  raining  and  we 
had  to  bring  him  inside.  I  knew  that  eventually  he 
would  own  that  tent,  and  probably  demand  a  sleeping 
bag.  I  knew  that  I  should  have  to  give  him  mine, 
or  at  least  share  it  with  him. 

I  stated  and  emphasized  these  views  and  insisted 
that  we  go  over  toward  the  half-obscured  shore,  where 
there  appeared  to  be  an  opening  which  might  be  the 
river.  We  did  go  over  there,  at  length,  and  there 
was,  in  fact,  an  opening,  but  it  was  made  by  a  brook 
entering  the  lake  instead  of  leaving  it.  Our  memo 
randum  of  information  declared  that  a  stream  called 
the  Susketch  emptied  into  the  lake  somewhere,  and 
we  decided  to  identify  this  as  the  place.  We  went  up 
a  little  way  to  a  good  looking  pool,  but  there  were 
no  trout — at  least,  they  refused  to  rise,  though  prob 
ably  the  oldest  and  mossiest  inhabitant  of  that  place 
had  never  had  such  an  opportunity  before.  Back  to 
the  lake  again,  we  were  pretty  soon  hovering  about 
the  enchanted  islands,  which  seemed  to  rise  on  every 
hand. 

It  was  just  the  sort  of  a  day  to  see  moose,  Del 
said,  and  there  was  no  other  matter  that  would  stand 
in  importance  against  a  proposition  like  that.  I 
became  interested  myself,  presently,  and  dropped  my 
voice  to  a  whisper  and  sat  up  at  every  black  spot 
among  the  leaves.  We  had  just  about  given  it  up  at 
length,  when  all  at  once  Del  gave  the  canoe  a  great 
shove  inshore,  at  the  same  time  calling  softly  to  the 

103 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


other  canoe,  which  had  already  sheared  off  into  the 
lake. 

They  were  with  us  in  an  instant  and  we  were 
clambering  out.  I  hadn't  seen  a  thing,  but  Del  swore 
that  he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  something  black  that 
moved  and  disappeared. 

Of  course  we  were  clad  in  our  wet-weather  armor. 
I  had  on  my  oilskins,  and  what  was  more,  those  high, 
heavy  wading  boots  that  came  up  under  my  arms.  It 
is  no  easy  matter  to  get  over  even  level  ground  rapidly 
with  a  rig  like  that,  and  when  it  comes  to  scaling  an 
island,  full  of  ledges  and  holes  and  underbrush  and 
vines,  the  problem  becomes  complex.  Del  and 
Charlie,  with  their  shoepacks,  distanced  me  as  easily 
as  if  I  had  been  sitting  still,  while  that  grasshopper, 
Eddie,  with  only  the  lightest  sort  of  waders,  skipped 
and  scampered  away  and  left  me  plunging  and 
floundering  about  in  the  brush,  with  scarcely  the  possi 
bility  of  seeing  anything,  even  if  it  were  directly  in 
front  of  my  nose. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  didn't  care  anything  about 
seeing  moose,  and  was  only  running  and  making  a 
donkey  of  myself  because  the  others  were  doing  it, 
and  I  had  caught  a  touch  of  their  disease. 

Suddenly,  I  heard  Charlie  call,  "  There  they  are ! 
There  they  go !  "  and  with  a  wild  redoubled  effort  I 
went  headlong  into  a  deep  pit,  half-filled  with  leaves 
and  brush,  and  muck  of  various  sorts.  This,  of 
course,  would  seem  to  assassinate  any  hope  I  might 

104 


"Hurry!     Hurry!     They've  got  over  to  the  shore!  " 

have  of  seeing  the  moose,  but  just  then,  by  some  occult 
process,  Charles,  the  Strong,  discovered  my  disaster, 
and  with  that  prowess  which  has  made  him  famous 
yanked  me  out  of  the  mess,  stood  me  on  my  feet  and 
had  me  running  again,  wallowing  through  the  bushes 
toward  the  other  side  of  the  little  island  whence  the 
moose  had  fled. 

''  There  they  go — they  are  swimming !  "  I  heard 
Del  call,  and  then  Eddie: 

"I   see   'em!      I   see   'em!"   and   then   Charles's 
voice,  a  little  ahead  of  me : 

"Hurry!      Hurry!      They've    got    over    to    the 
shore!" 

105 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


I  reached  the  shore  myself  just  then — our  shore, 
I  mean — on  all  fours  and  full  of  scratches  and  bruises, 
but  not  too  late,  for  beyond  a  wide  neck  of  water, 
on  the  mainland,  two  dark  phantoms  drifted  a  little 
way  through  the  mist  and  vanished  into  the  dark 
foliage  behind. 

It  was  only  a  glimpse  I  had  and  I  was  battered 
up  and  still  disordered,  more  or  less,  with  the  ivy 
poison.  But  somehow  I  was  satisfied.  For  one  thing, 
I  had  become  infected  with  a  tinge  of  the  native 
enthusiasm  about  seeing  the  great  game  of  the  woods, 
and  then  down  in  my  soul  I  rejoiced  that  Eddie  had 
failed  to  capture  the  little  calf.  Furthermore,  it 
was  comforting  to  reflect  that  even  from  the  guides' 
point  of  view,  our  expedition,  whatever  else  might 
come,  must  be  considered  a  success. 

We  now  got  down  to  business.  It  was  well  along 
toward  evening,  and  though  these  days  were  long 
days,  this  one,  with  its  somber  skies  and  heavy  mist, 
would  close  in  early.  We  felt  that  it  was  desirable 
to  find  the  lake's  outlet  before  pitching  our  tents,  for 
the  islands  make  rather  poor  camping  places  and  lake 
fishing  is  apt  to  be  slow  work.  We  wanted  to  get 
settled  in  camp  on  the  lower  Shelburne  before  night 
and  be  ready  for  the  next  day's  sport. 

We  therefore  separated,  agreeing  upon  a  signal  of 
two  shots  from  whichever  of  us  had  the  skill  or 
fortune  to  discover  the  outlet.  The  other  canoe  faded 
into  the  mist  below  the  islands  while  we  paddled 

106 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


slowly  toward  the  gray  green  shores  opposite.  When 
presently  we  were  all  alone,  I  was  filled,  somehow, 
with  the  feeling  that  must  have  come  over  those  old 
Canadian  voyageurs  who  were  first  to  make  their 
way  through  the  northlands,  threading  the  network 
of  unknown  waters.  I  could  not  get  rid  of  the  idea 
that  we  were  pioneers  in  this  desolate  spot,  and  so  far 
as  sportsmen  were  concerned,  it  may  be  that  we  were. 


107 


Cfmpter  Ctoeibe 

The  lake  is  dull  with  the  drifting  mist, 
And  the  shores  are  dim  and  blind; 

And  where  is  the  way  ahead,  to-day, 
And  what  of  the  path  behind? 


Cfjapter 

A3NG  the  wet,  blurred  shore  we  cruised,  the 
mist  getting  thicker  and  more  like  rain.  Here 
and  there  we  entered  some  little  bay  or  nook 
that  from  a  distance  looked  as  if  it  might  be  an  outlet. 
Eventually  we  lost  all  direction  and  simply  investi 
gated  at  random  wherever  any  appearance  seemed 
inviting.  Once  we  went  up  a  long  slough  and  were 
almost  ready  to  fire  the  signal  shots  when  we  dis 
covered  our  mistake.  It  seemed  a  narrow  escape 
from  the  humiliation  of  giving  a  false  alarm.  What 
had  become  of  the  others  we  did  not  know.  Evi 
dently  the  lake  was  a  big  one  and  they  might  be  miles 
away.  Eddie  had  the  only  compass,  though  this 
would  seem  to  be  of  no  special  advantage. 

At  last,  just  before  us,  the  shore  parted — a  definite, 
wide  parting'  it  was,  that  when  we  pushed  into  it 
did  not  close  and  come  to  nothing,  but  kept  on  and 
on,  opening  out  ahead.  We  went  a  good  way  in,  to 
make  sure.  The  water  seemed  very  still,  but  then  we 
remembered  the  flatness  of  the  country.  Undoubtedly 
this  was  the  outlet,  and  we  had  discovered  it.  It 
was  only  natural  that  we  should  feel  a  certain  elation 
in  our  having  had  the  good  fortune — the  instinct,  as 
it  were — to  proceed  aright.  I  lifted  my  gun  and  it 

in 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


was  with  a  sort  of  triumphant  flourish  that  I  fired  the 
two  signal  shots. 

It  may  be  that  the  reader  will  not  fully  understand 
the  importance  of  finding  a  little  thing  like  the  outlet 
of  a  lake  on  a  wet,  disagreeable  day  when  the  other 
fellows  are  looking  for  it,  too;  and  here,  to-day,  far 
away  from  that  northern  desolation,  it  does  not  seem 
even  to  me  a  very  great  affair  whether  our  canoe  or 
Eddie's  made  the  discovery.  But  for  some  reason 
it  counted  a  lot  then,  and  I  suppose  Del  and  I  were 
unduly  elated  over  our  success.  It  was  just  as  well 
that  we  were,  for  our  period  of  joy  was  brief.  In 
the  very  instant  while  my  finger  was  still  touching  the 
trigger,  we  heard  come  soggily  through  the  mist, 
from  far  down  the  chill,  gray  water,  one  shot  and  then 
another. 

I  looked  at  Del  and  he  at  me. 

"  They've  found  something,  too,"  I  said.  "  Do 
you  suppose  there  are  two  outlets?  Anyhow,  here 
goes,"  and  I  fired  again  our  two  shots  of  discovery, 
and  a  little  later  two  more  so  that  there  might  be  no 
mistake  in  our  manifest.  I  was  not  content,  you  see, 
with  the  possibility  of  being  considered  just  an  ordi 
nary  ass,  I  must  establish  proof  beyond  question  of  a 
supreme  idiocy  in  the  matter  of  woodcraft.  That  is 
my  way  in  many  things.  I  know,  for  I  have  done 
it  often.  I  shall  keep  on  doing  it,  I  suppose,  until 
the  moment  when  I  am  permitted  to  say,  "  I  die 


innocent." 


112 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


"  They  only  think  they  have  found  something,"  I 
said  to  Del  now.  "  It's  probably  the  long  slough  we 
found  a  while  ago.  They'll  be  up  here  quick  enough," 
and  I  fired  yet  two  more  shots,  to  rub  it  in. 

But  now  two  more  shots  came  also  from  Eddie, 
and  again  two  more.  By  this  time  we  had  pushed 
several  hundred  yards  farther  into  the  opening,  and 
there  was  no  doubt  but  that  it  was  a  genuine  river.  I 
was  growing  every  moment  more  elated  with  our 
triumph  over  the  others  and  in  thinking  how  we 
would  ride  them  down  when  they  finally  had  to  aban 
don  their  lead  and  follow  ours,  when  all  at  once  Del, 
who  had  been  looking  over  the  side  of  the  canoe  grew 
grave  and  stopped  paddling. 

"  There  seems  to  be  a  little  current  here,"  he  said, 
pointing  down  to  the  grass  which  showed  plainly  now 
in  the  clear  water,  "  yes — there — is — a  current,"  he 
went  on  very  slowly,  his  voice  becoming  more  dismal 
at  every  word,  "  but  it's  going  the  wrong  way!  " 

I  looked  down  intently.  Sure  enough,  the  grass 
on  the  bottom  pointed  back  toward  the  lake. 

"  Then  it  isn't  the  Shelburne,  after  all,"  I  said, 
"  but  another  river  we've  discovered." 

Del  looked  at  me  pathetically. 

"  It's  the  Shelburne,  all  right,"  he  nodded,  and 
there  was  deep  suffering  in  his  tones,  "  oh,  yes,  it's 
the  Shelburne — only  it  happens  to  be  the  upper  end — 
the  place  where  we  came  in.  That  rock  is  where  you 
stopped  to  make  a  few  casts." 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


No  canoe  ever  got  out  of  the  upper  Shelburne  River 
quicker  than  ours.  Those  first  old  voyageurs  of  that 
waste  region  never  made  better  time  down  Irving 
Lake.  Only,  now  and  then,  I  fired  some  more  shots, 
to  announce  our  coming,  and  to  prepare  for  the  lie 
we  meant  to  establish  that  we  only  had  been  replying 
to  their  shots  all  along  and  not  announcing  anything 
new  and  important  of  our  own. 

But  it  was  no  use.  We  had  guilt  written  on  our 
features,  and  we  never  had  been  taught  to  lie  con 
vincingly.  In  fact  it  was  wasted  effort  from  the 
start.  The  other  canoe  had  been  near  enough  when 
we  entered  the  trap  to  see  us  go  in,  and  even  then 
had  located  the  true  opening,  which  was  no  great 
distance  away.  They  jeered  us  to  silence  and  they 
rode  us  down.  They  carefully  drew  our  attention  to 
the  old  log  dam  in  proof  that  this  was  the  real  outlet; 
they  pointed  to  the  rapid  outpouring  current — for  it 
was  a  swift  boiling  stream  here — and  asked  us  if  we 
could  tell  which  way  it  was  flowing.  For  a  time  our 
disgrace  was  both  active  and  complete.  Then  came 
a  diversion.  Real  rain — the  usual  night  downpour — 
set  in,  and  there  was  a  scramble  to  get  the  tents  up 
and  our  goods  under  cover. 

Yet  the  abuse  had  told  on  me.  One  of  my  eyes — 
the  last  to  yield  to  the  whisky  treatment,  began  to 
throb  a  good  deal — and  I  dragged  off  my  wet  clothes, 
got  on  a  dry  garment  (the  only  thing  I  had  left  by 
this  time  that  was  dry)  and  worked  my  way  labori- 

114 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


ously,  section  by  section,  into  my  sleeping  bag,  after 
which  Eddie  was  sorry  for  me — as  I  knew  he  would 
be — and  brought  me  a  cup  of  tea  and  some  toast  and 
put  a  nice  piece  of  chocolate  into  my  mouth  and  sang 
me  a  song.  It  had  been  a  pretty  strenuous  day,  and  I 
had  been  bruised  and  cold  and  wet  and  scratched  and 
humiliated.  But  the  tea  and  toast  put  me  in  a  for 
giving  spirit,  and  the  chocolate  was  good,  and  Eddie 
can  sing.  I  was  dry,  too,  and  reasonably  warm.  And 
the  rain  hissing  into  the  campfire  at  the  door  had  a 
soothing  sound. 


Cfmpter  ®f)irteen 

Now  take  the  advice  that  I  do  not  need — 

That  I  do  not  heed,  alway : 
For  there's  many  a  fool  can  make  a  rule 

Which  only  the  wise  obey. 


Chapter  tWrirteen 

A  usual,  the  clouds  had  emptied  themselves  by 
morning.  The  sky  was  still  dull  and  threat 
ening,  and  from  the  tent  door  the  water  of 
the  lake  was  gray.  But  the  mist  had  gone,  and  the 
islands  came  out  green  and  beautiful.  The  conditions 
made  it  possible  to  get  some  clothing  decently  smoked 
and  scorched,  which  is  the  nearest  approach  to  dryness 
one  is  ever  likely  to  achieve  in  the  woods  in  a  rainy 
season. 

I  may  say  here  that  the  time  will  come — and  all 
too  soon,  in  a  period  of  rain — when  you  will  reach 
your  last  dry  suit  of  underwear — and  get  it  wet.  Then 
have  a  care.  Be  content  to  stay  in  a  safe,  dry  spot, 
if  you  can  find  one — you  will  have  to  go  to  bed,  of 
course,  to  do  it — until  something  is  dry — that  is, 
pretty  dry.  To  change  from  one  wet  suit  to  another 
only  a  little  less  so  is  conducive  neither  to  comfort  nor 
to  a  peaceful  old  age.  Above  all,  do  not  put  on  your 
night  garment,  or  garments,  for  underwear,  for  they 
will  get  wet,  too;  then  your  condition  will  be 
desperate. 

I  submit  the  above  as  good  advice.  I  know  it  is 
good  advice  for  I  did  not  follow  it.  I  have  never 
followed  good  advice — I  have  only  given  it.  At  the 

119 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


end  of  several  nights  of  rain  and  moist  days,  I  had 
nothing  really  dry  but  my  nightshirt  and  one  slipper 
and  I  think  Eddie's  condition  was  not  so  far  removed. 
What  we  did  was  to  pick  out  the  least  damp  of  our 
things  and  smoke  and  scorch  them  on  a  pole  over  the 
campfire  until  they  had  a  sort  of  a  half-done  look, 
like  bread  toasted  over  a  gas  jet;  then  suddenly  we 
would  seize  them  and  put  them  on  hot  and  go  around 
steaming,  and  smelling  of  leaf  smoke  and  burnt  dry 
goods — these  odors  blended  with  the  fragrance  of 
camphor,  tar  and  pennyroyal,  with  which  we  were 
presently  saturated  in  every  pore.  For  though  it  was 
said  to  be  too  late  for  black  flies  and  too  early  for 
mosquitoes,  the  rear  guard  of  the  one  and  the  advance 
guard  of  the  other  combined  to  furnish  us  with  a  good 
deal  of  special  occupation.  The  most  devoted  fol 
lower  of  the  Prophet  never  anointed  himself  oftener 
than  we  did,  and  of  course  this  continuous  oily  appli 
cation  made  it  impossible  to  wash  very  perfectly; 
besides,  it  seemed  a  waste  to  wash  off  the  precious 
protection  when  to  do  so  meant  only  another  imme 
diate  and  more  thorough  treatment. 

I  will  dwell  for  a  moment  on  this  matter  of  wash 
ing.  Fishing  and  camping,  though  fairly  clean  recre 
ations,  will  be  found  not  altogether  free  from  soiling 
and  grimy  tendencies,  and  when  one  does  not  or  can 
not  thoroughly  remove  the  evidences  several  times  a 
day,  they  begin  to  tell  on  his  general  appearance. 
Gradually  our  hands  lost  everything  original  except 

120 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


their  shape.  Then  I  found  that  to  shave  took  off  a 
good  deal  of  valuable  ointment  each  time,  and  I  ap 
proved  of  Eddie's  ideas  in  this  direction  to  the  extent 
of  following  his  example.  I  believe,  though,  that  I 
washed  myself  longer  than  he  did — that  is,  at  stated 
intervals.  Of  course  we  never  gave  up  the  habit 
altogether.  It  would  break  out  sporadically  and  at 
unexpected  moments,  but  I  do  not  recall  that  these 
lapses  ever  became  dangerous  or  offensive.  My 
recollection  is  that  Eddie  gave  up  washing  as  a 
mania,  that  morning  at  the  foot  of  Irving  Lake  and 
that  I  held  out  until  the  next  sunrise.  Or  it  may 
have  been  only  until  that  evening — it  does  not  mat 
ter.  Washing  is  a  good  deal  a  question  of  pride, 
anyway,  and  pride  did  not  count  any  more.  Even 
self-respect  had  lost  its  charm. 

In  the  matter  of  clothing,  however,  I  wish  to 
record  that  I  never  did  put  on  my  nightdress  for  an 
undergarment.  I  was  tempted  to  do  so,  daily,  but 
down  within  me  a  still  small  voice  urged  the  rashness 
of  such  a  deed  and  each  night  I  was  thankful  for 
that  caution.  If  one's  things  are  well  smoked  and 
scorched  and  scalded  and  put  on  hot  in  the  morning, 
he  can  forget  presently  that  they  are  not  also  dry, 
and  there  is  a  chance  that  they  may  become  so  before 
night;  but  to  face  the  prospect  of  getting  into  a  wet 
garment  to  sleep,  that  would  have  a  tendency  to 
destroy  the  rare  charm  and  flavor  of  camp  life.  In 
time  I  clung  to  my  dry  nightshirt  as  to  a  life-belt.  I 

121 


: 


"  If  one's  things  are  well  smoked  and  scorched  and  scalded  and 
put  on  hot  in  the  morning " 

wrapped  it  up  mornings  as  a  jewel,  buried  it  deep  in 
the  bottom  of  my  bag,  and  I  locked  the  bag.  Not 
that  Eddie  did  not  have  one  of  his  own — it  may  be 
that  he  had  a  variety  of  such  things — and  as  for  the 
guides,  I  have  a  notion  that  they  prefer  wet  clothes. 
But  though  this  was  a  wild  country,  where  it  was 
unlikely  that  we  should  meet  any  living  soul,  there 
was  always  the  possibility  of  a  stray  prospector  or  a 
hunter,  and  a  dry  garment  in  a  wet  time  is  a  tempta 
tion  which  should  not  be  put  in  any  man's  way. 
Neither  that  nor  the  liquor  supply.  When  we  left 

122 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


our  camp — as  we  did,  often — our  guns,  our  tackle, 
even  our  purses  and  watches,  were  likely  to  be  scat 
tered  about  in  plain  view ;  but  we  never  failed  to  hide 
the  whisky.  Whisky  is  fair  loot,  and  the  woodsman 
who  would  scorn  to  steal  even  a  dry  shirt  would  carry 
off  whisky  and  revel  in  his  shame. 

There  were  quantities  of  trout  in  the  lower  Shel- 
burne,  and  in  a  pool  just  below  the  camp,  next  morn 
ing,  Eddie  and  I  took  a  dozen  or  more — enough  for 
breakfast  and  to  spare — in  a  very  few  minutes.  They 
were  lively  fish — rather  light  in  color,  but  beautifully 
marked  and  small  enough  to  be  sweet  and  tender, 
that  is,  not  much  over  a  half-pound  weight.  In  fact, 
by  this  time  we  were  beginning  to  have  a  weakness 
for  the  smaller  fish.  The  pound-and-upward  trout, 
the  most  plentiful  size,  thus  far,  were  likely  to  be 
rather  dry  and  none  too  tender.  When  we  needed 
a  food  supply,  the  under-sized  fish  were  more  wel 
come,  and  when,  as  happened  only  too  rarely,  we  took 
one  of  the  old-fashioned  New  England  "  speckled 
beauty  "  dimensions — that  is  to  say,  a  trout  of  from 
seven  to  nine  inches  long  and  of  a  few  ounces  weight 
— it  was  welcomed  with  real  joy.  Big  fish  are  a  satis 
faction  at  the  end  of  a  line  and  in  the  landing  net,  but 
when  one  really  enters  upon  a  trout  diet — when  at 
last  it  becomes  necessary  to  serve  them  in  six  or  seven 
different  ways  to  make  them  go  down — the  demand 
for  the  smallest  fish  obtainable  is  pretty  certain  to 
develop,  while  the  big  ones  are  promptly  returned 

123 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


with  good  wishes  and  God-speed  to  their  native 
element. 

For  of  course  no  true  sportsman  ever  keeps  any 
trout  he  cannot  use.  Only  the  "  fish-hog  "  does  that. 
A  trout  caught  on  a  fly  is  seldom  injured,  and  if 
returned  immediately  to  the  water  will  dart  away,  all 
the  happier,  it  may  be,  for  his  recent  tug-of-war.  He 
suffers  little  or  no  pain  in  the  tough  cartilages  about 
his  mouth  and  gills  (a  fact  I  have  demonstrated  by 
hooking  the  same  fish  twice,  both  marks  plainly  show 
ing  on  him  when  taken)  and  the  new  kind  of  exercise 
and  experience  he  gets  at  the  end  of  the  line,  and  his 
momentary  association  with  human  beings,  constitute 
for  him  a  valuable  asset,  perhaps  to  be  retailed  in  the 
form  of  reminiscence  throughout  old  age.  But  to 
fling  him  into  a  canoe,  to  gasp  and  die  and  be  thrown 
away,  that  is  a  different  matter.  That  is  a  crime 
worse  than  stealing  a  man's  lunch  or  his  last  dry 
undershirt,  or  even  his  whisky. 

In  the  first  place,  kill  your  trout  the  moment  you 
take  him  out  of  the  water — that  is,  if  you  mean  to  eat 
him.  If  he  is  too  big,  or  if  you  already  have  enough, 
put  him  back  with  all  expedition  and  let  him  swim 
away.  Even  if  he  does  warn  the  other  trout  and 
spoil  the  fishing  in  that  pool,  there  are  more  pools, 
and  then  it  is  likely  you  have  fished  enough  in  that 
one,  anyway.  Come  back  next  year  and  have  another 
battle  with  him.  He  will  be  bigger  and  know  better 
what  to  do  then.  Perhaps  it  will  be  his  turn  to  win. 

124 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


In  the  matter  of  killing  a  fish  there  are  several  ways 
to  do  it.  Some  might  prefer  to  set  him  up  on  the  bank 
and  shoot  at  him.  Another  way  would  be  to  brain 
him  with  an  ax.  The  guides  have  a  way  of  breaking 
a  trout's  neck  by  a  skillful  movement  which  I  never 
could  duplicate.  My  own  method  is  to  sever  the 
vertebrae  just  back  of  the  ears — gills,  I  mean — with 
the  point  of  a  sharp  knife.  It  is  quick  and  effective. 

I  don't  know  why  I  am  running  on  with  digression 
and  advice  this  way.  Perhaps  because  about  this 
period  I  had  had  enough  experience  to  feel  capable 
of  giving  advice.  A  little  experience  breeds  a  lot  of 
advice.  I  knew  a  man  once * 

*The  publisher  wished  me  to  go  on  with  the  story  at  this  point.  The  man  re 
ferred  to  above  got  his  experience  in  Wall  Street.  He  got  enough  in  half  a  day 
to  keep  him  in  advice  for  forty-seven  years. 


126 


Chapter  ^Fourteen 

Oh,  never  a  voice  to  answer  here, 

And  never  a  face  to  see — 
M id  chill  and  damp  we  build  our  camp 
-  Under  the  hemlock  tree. 


Chapter  ^fourteen 

IN  spite  of  the  rains  the  waters  of  the  Shelburne 
were  too  low  at  this  point  to  descend  in  the 
canoes.  The  pools  were  pretty  small  affairs  and 
the  rapids  long,  shallow  and  very  ragged.  It  is  good 
sport  to  run  rapids  in  a  canoe  when  there  is  plenty 
of  swift  water  and  a  fair  percentage  of  danger.  But 
these  were  dangerous  only  to  the  canoes,  which  in 
many  places  would  not  even  float,  loaded  as  we  were. 
It  became  evident  that  the  guides  would  have  to  wade 
and  drag,  with  here  and  there  a  carry,  to  get  the 
boats  down  to  deeper  water — provided  always  there 
was  deeper  water,  which  we  did  not  doubt. 

Eddie  and  I  set  out  ahead,  and  having  had  our 
morning's  fishing,  kept  pretty  well  to  the  bank  where 
the  walking  was  fairly  good.  We  felt  pleasant  and 
comfortable  and  paid  not  much  attention  to  the  stream, 
except  where  a  tempting  pool  invited  a  cast  or  two, 
usually  with  prompt  returns,  though  we  kept  only  a 
few,  smaller  fish. 

We  found  the  banks  more  attractive.  Men  had 
seldom  disturbed  the  life  there,  and  birds  sang  an 
arm's  length  away,  or  regarded  us  quietly,  without 
distrust.  Here  and  there  a  hermit  thrush — the  sweet- 

129 


The   Tent  Dwellers 

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••«•••••• 

est  and  shyest  of  birds — himself  unseen,  charmed  us 
with  his  mellow  syllables.  Somehow,  in  the  far, 
unfretted  removal  of  it  all,  we  felt  at  peace  with  every 
living  thing,  and  when  a  partridge  suddenly  dropped 
down  on  a  limb  not  three  yards  away,  neither  of  us 
offered  to  shoot,  though  we  had  our  rifles  and  Eddie 
his  B.  M.  license  to  kill  and  skin  and  hence  to  eat, 
and  though  fish  were  at  a  discount  and  game  not 
overplentiful. 

And  then  we  were  rewarded  by  a  curious  and 
beautiful  exhibition.  For  the  partridge  was  a  mother 
bird,  and  just  at  our  feet  there  was  a  peeping  and  a 
scampering  of  little  brown  balls  that  disappeared  like 
magic  among  the  leaves — her  fussy,  furry  brood. 

I  don't  think  she  mistrusted  our  intent — at  least, 
not  much.  But  she  wanted  to  make  sure.  She  was 
not  fully  satisfied  to  have  us  remain  just  there,  with 
her  babies  hiding  not  two  yards  away.  She  dropped 
on  the  ground  herself,  directly  in  front  of  us — so 
close  that  one  might  almost  touch  her — and  letting 
one  of  her  wings  fall  loosely,  looked  back  at  us  over 
her  shoulder  as  if  to  say,  "  You  see,  it  is  broken.  If 
you  wish,  you  can  catch  me,  easily." 

So  we  let  her  fool  us — at  least,  we  let  her  believe 
we  were  deceived — and  made  as  if  to  stoop  for  her, 
and  followed  each  time  when  she  ran  a  few  steps 
farther  ahead,  until  little  by  little  she  had  led  us 
away  from  her  family.  Then  when  she  was  sure  that 
we  really  did  not  want  her  or  her  chickens,  but  cared 

130 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


only  to  be  amused,  she  ran  quickly  a  little  way  farther 
and  disappeared,  and  we  saw  her  no  more.  Within 
a  minute  or  two  from  that  time  she  was  probably  back 
with  her  little  folks,  and  they  were  debating  as  to 
whether  we  were  bird  or  beast,  and  why  we  carried 
that  curious  combination  of  smells. 

It  was  such  incidents  as  this  that  led  us  on.  The 
morning  was  gone,  presently,  and  we  had  no  means 
of  knowing  how  far  we  had  come.  It  seemed  to  us 
but  a  short  way.  We  forgot  the  windings  of  the 
stream,  some  of  which  we  had  eluded  by  cut-offs,  and 
how  many  hard  places  there  would  be  for  Del  and 
Charlie  to  get  over  with  the  canoes.  As  a  matter  of 
fact  we  rather  expected  them  to  overtake  us  at  any 
time,  and  as  the  pools  became  deeper  and  longer  and 
the  rapids  somewhat  more  navigable  we  feared  to 
leave  the  stream  on  the  chance  of  being  passed.  It 
was  about  one  o'clock  when  we  reached  a  really  beauti 
ful  stretch  of  water,  wide  and  deep,  and  navigable  for 
an  indefinite  distance.  Here  we  stopped  to  get  fish 
for  luncheon,  and  to  wait  for  the  boats,  which  we 
anticipated  at  any  moment. 

It  was  a  wonderful  place  to  fish.  One  could  wade 
out  and  get  long  casts  up  and  down,  and  the  trout 
rose  to  almost  any  fly.  Eddie  caught  a  white  perch 
at  last  and  I  two  yellow  ones,  not  very  plentiful  in 
these  waters  and  most  desirable  from  the  food  point 
of  view.  The  place  seemed  really  inexhaustible.  I 
think  there  were  few  trout  larger  than  fourteen 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


inches  in  length,  but  of  these  there  were  a  great  many, 
and  a  good  supply  of  the  "  speckled  beauty  "  size. 
When  we  had  enough  of  these  for  any  possible  lun 
cheon  demand,  and  were  fairly  weary  of  casting  and 
reeling  in,  we  suddenly  realized  that  we  were  hungry; 
also  that  it  was  well  into  the  afternoon  and  that  there 
were  no  canoes  in  sight.  Furthermore,  in  the  enthu 
siasm  of  the  sport  we  had  both  of  us  more  than  once 
stepped  beyond  the  gunwales  of  our  waders  and  had 
our  boots  full  of  water,  besides  being  otherwise  wet. 
Once,  in  fact,  I  had  slipped  off  a  log  on  all  fours,  in 
a  rather  deep  place.  It  began  to  be  necessary  that 
we  should  have  a  camp  and  be  fed.  Still  we  waited 
hopefully,  expecting  every  moment  to  see  the  canoes 
push  around  the  bend. 

Eventually  we  were  seized  with  misgivings.  Could 
the  guides  have  met  with  shipwreck  in  some  desperate 
place  and  disabled  one  or  both  of  the  canoes,  perhaps 
losing  our  stores  ?  The  thought  was  depressing.  Was 
it  possible  that  they  had  really  passed  us  during  some 
period  when  we  had  left  the  water,  and  were  now  far 
ahead?  We  could  not  believe  it.  Could  it  be  that 
the  river  had  divided  at  some  unseen  point  and  that 
we  had  followed  one  fork  and  they  another?  It  did 
not  seem  probable.  Perhaps,  after  all,  we  had  come 
farther  than  we  believed,  and  they  had  been  delayed 
by  the  difficulties  of  navigation. 

But  when  another  hour  passed  and  they  did  not 
appear  or  answer  to  our  calls,  the  reason  for  their 

132 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


delay  did  not  matter.  We  were  wet,  cold  and  hungry. 
Food  and  fire  were  the  necessary  articles.  We  had 
not  a  scrap  of  food  except  our  uncooked  fish,  and  it 
would  be  no  easy  matter,  without  ax  or  hatchet,  to  get 
a  fire  started  in  those  rain-soaked  woods.  Also,  we 
had  no  salt,  but  that  was  secondary. 

Eddie  said  he  would  try  to  build  a  fire  if  I  would 
clean  some  fish,  but  this  proved  pretty  lonesome  work 
for  both  of  us.  We  decided  to  both  build  a  fire  and 
then  both  clean  the  fish.  We  dug  down  under  the 
leaves  for  dry  twigs,  but  they  were  not  plentiful. 
Then  we  split  open  some  dead  spruce  branches  and 
got  a  few  resinous  slivers  from  the  heart  of  them,  a 
good  many  in  fact,  and  we  patiently  gathered  bits  of 
reasonably  dry  bark  and  branches  from  under  the 
sheltered  side  of  logs  and  rocks  and  leaning  trees. 

We  meant  to  construct  our  fire  very  carefully  and 
we  did.  We  scooped  a  little  hollow  in  the  ground 
for  draught,  and  laid  in  some  of  the  drier  pieces  of 
bark,  upon  which  to  pile  our  spruce  slivers.  Upon 
these  in  turn  we  laid  very  carefully  what  seemed  to 
be  our  driest  selections  of  twigs,  increasing  the  size 
with  each  layer,  until  we  laid  on  limbs  of  goodly 
bulk  and  had  a  very  respectable  looking  heap  of  fuel, 
ready  for  lighting  on  the  windward  side. 

Our  mistake  was  that  we  did  not  light  it  sooner. 
The  weight  of  our  larger  fuel  had  pressed  hard  upon 
our  little  heap  of  spruce  slivers  and  flattened  it,  when 
it  should  have  remained  loose  and  quickly  inflamma- 

133 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


ble,  with  the  larger  fuel  lying  handy,  to  be  added 
at  the  proper  moment.  As  it  was,  the  tiny  blaze  had 
a  habit  of  going  out  just  about  the  time  when  it  ought 
to  have  been  starting  some  bigger  material.  When 
we  did  get  a  sickly  flame  going  up  through  the  little 
damp  mess  of  stuff,  there  was  a  good  deal  more 
smoke  than  fire  and  we  were  able  to  keep  the  blaze 
alive  only  by  energetic  encouragement  in  the  form  of 
blowing. 

First  Eddie  would  get  down  on  his  hands,  with 
his  chin  against  the  ground  and  blow  until  he  was 
apoplectic  and  blind  with  smoke,  and  then  I  would 
take  my  turn.  I  never  saw  two  full-grown  men  so 
anxious  over  a  little  measly  fire  in  my  life.  We 
almost  forgot  that  we  were  perishing  with  cold  and 
hunger  ourselves  in  our  anxiety  to  keep  the  spark  of 
life  in  that  fire. 

We  saved  the  puny  thing,  finally,  and  it  waxed 
strong.  Then  we  put  in  a  good  deal  of  time  feeding 
and  nursing  our  charge  and  making  it  warm  and  com 
fortable  before  we  considered  ourselves.  And  how 
did  the  ungrateful  thing  repay  us?  By  filling  our 
eyes  with  smoke  and  chasing  us  from  side  to  side, 
pursuing  us  even  behind  trees  to  blind  and  torture  us 
with  its  acrid  smarting  vapors.  In  fact,  the  per 
versity  of  campfire  smoke  remains  one  of  the  unex 
plained  mysteries.  I  have  seen  a  fire  properly  built 
between  two  tents — with  good  draught  and  the  whole 
wide  sky  to  hold  the  smoke — suddenly  send  a  column 

134 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


of  suffocating  vapor  directly  into  the  door  of  the  tent, 
where  there  was  no  draught,  no  room,  no  demand  at 
all  for  smoke.  I  have  had  it  track  me  into  the 
remotest  corner  of  my  sleeping-bag  and  have  found 
it  waiting  for  me  when  I  came  up  for  a  breath  of 
air.  I  have  had  it  come  clear  around  the  tent  to 
strangle  me  when  I  had  taken  refuge  on  the  back 
side.  I  have  had  it  follow  me  through  the  bushes, 
up  a  tree,  over  a  cliff 

As  I  was  saying,  we  got  the  fire  going.  After  that 
the  rest  was  easy.  It  was  simply  a  matter  of  cleaning 
a  few  trout,  sticking  them  on  sticks  and  fighting  the 
smoke  fiend  with  one  hand  while  we  burnt  and  black 
ened  the  trout  a  little  with  the  other,  and  ate  them, 
sans  salt,  sans  fork,  sans  knife,  sans  everything.  Not 
that  they  were  not  good.  I  have  never  eaten  any 
better  raw,  unsalted  trout  anywhere,  not  even  at 
Delmonico's. 

The  matter  of  getting  dry  and  warm  was  different. 
It  is  not  the  pleasantest  thing  in  the  world,  even 
by  a  very  respectable  fire  such  as  we  had  now 
achieved,  to  take  off  all  of  one's  things  without  the 
protection  of  a  tent,  especially  when  the  woods  are 
damp  and  trickly  and  there  is  a  still  small  breath  of 
chill  wind  blowing,  and  to  have  to  hop  and  skip,  on 
one  foot  and  then  on  the  other,  to  keep  the  circula 
tion  going  while  your  things  are  on  a  limb  in  the 
smoke,  getting  scalded  and  fumigated,  and  black 
edged  here  and  there  where  the  flame  has  singed  up 

135 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


high.  It's  all  in  a  day's  camping,  of  course,  and  alto 
gether  worth  while,  but  when  the  shades  of  night 
are  closing  in  and  one  is  still  doing  a  spectral  dance 
about  a  dying  fire,  in  a  wet  wood,  on  a  stomach  full 
of  raw  trout,  then  the  camping  day  seems  pretty  long 
and  there  is  pressing  need  of  other  diversion. 

It  was  well  toward  night  when  we  decided  that 
our  clothes  were  scorched  enough  for  comfortable 
wear,  and  a  late  hour  it  was,  for  the  June  days  in  the 
north  woods  are  long.  We  had  at  no  time  lost  sight 
of  the  river,  and  we  began  to  realize  the  positive 
necessity  of  locating  our  guides  and  canoes.  We  had 
given  up  trying  to  understand  the  delay.  We  decided 
to  follow  back  up  the  river  until  we  found  them,  or 
until  we  reached  some  other  branch  which  they  might 
have  chosen.  It  was  just  as  we  were  about  to  begin 
this  discouraging  undertaking  that  far  up  the  bend 
we  heard  a  call,  then  another.  We  answered,  both 
together,  and  in  the  reply  we  recognized  the  tones  of 
Charles  the  Strong. 

Presently  they  came  in  sight — each  dragging  a 
canoe  over  the  last  riffle  just  above  the  long  hole.  A 
moment  later  we  had  hurried  back  to  meet  two  of  the 
weariest,  wettest,  most  bedraggled  mortals  that  ever 
poled  and  dragged  and  carried  canoe.  All  day  they 
had  been  pulling  and  lifting;  loading,  unloading  and 
carrying  those  canoes  and  bags  and  baskets  over  the 
Shelburne  riffles,  where  not  even  the  lightest  craft 
could  float.  How  long  had  been  the  distance  they 

136 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


did  not  know,  but  the  miles  had  been  sore,  tedious 
miles,  and  they  had  eaten  nothing  more  than  a  biscuit, 
expecting  at  every  bend  to  find  us  waiting. 

It  was  proper  that  we  should  make  camp  now  at 
the  first  inviting  place.  We  offered  to  stop  right 
there,  where  our  fire  was  already  going,  but  it  was 
decided  that  the  ground  was  a  poor  selection,  being 
rather  low.  We  piled  into  the  canoes  and  shot  down 
the  long  hole,  while  the  light  of  evening  was  fading 
from  the  sky.  Several  hundred  yards  below,  the 
water  widened  and  the  bank  sloped  higher.  It  seemed 
an  attractive  spot  and  we  already  knew  the  fishing  in 
these  waters.  But  as  a  final  test  Eddie  made  a  cast 
as  we  rounded,  tossing  his  flies  into  an  inviting  swirl 
just  below  a  huge  bowlder.  For  some  reason  we  had 
put  on  three  flies,  and  when  he  finally  got  his  mess 
of  fish  into  the  net,  there  were  three  trout — all  good 
ones — one  on  each  fly. 

We  decided  to  camp  there,  for  good  luck,  and  to 
stay  until  we  were  fully  repaired  for  travel.  No 
camp  was  ever  more  warmly  welcomed,  or  ever  will 
be  more  fondly  remembered  by  us  all. 


138 


Chapter  Jfifteen 

To-night,  to-night,  the  frost  is  white, 

Under  the  silver  moon; 
And  lo,  I  lie,  as  the  hours  go  by, 

Freezing  to  death  in  June. 


Chapter  Jftfteen 

THE  reader  will  have  gathered  by  this  time 
that  I  had  set  out  with  only  a  hazy  idea  of 
what  camping  in  Nova  Scotia  would  be  like. 
I  think  I  had  some  notion  that  our  beds  would  be  down 
in  the  mud  as  often  as  not,  and  sticky  and  disagree 
able — something  to  be  endured  for  the  sake  of  the 
day's  sport.  Things  were  not  as  I  expected,  of 
course.  Things  never  are.  Our  beds  were  not  in  the 
mud — not  often — and  there  were  days — chill,  wet, 
disheartening  days — when  I  looked  forward  to  them 
and  to  the  campfire  blaze  at  the  tent  door  with  that 
comfort  which  a  child  finds  in  the  prospect  of  its 
mother's  arm. 

On  the  whole,  I  am  sure  our  camps  were  more 
commodious  than  I  had  expected  them  to  be ;  and  they 
were  pretentious  affairs,  considering  that  we  were 
likely  to  occupy  them  no  more  than  one  night.  We 
had  three  tents — Eddie's,  already  described ;  a  tent  for 
the  guides,  of  about  the  same  proportions,  and  a  top 
or  roof  tent,  under  which  we  dined  when  it  rained. 
Then  there  was  a  little  porch  arrangement  which 
we  sometimes  put  out  over  the  front,  but  we  found 
it  had  the  bad  habit  of  inviting  the  smoke  to  investi 
gate  and  permeate  our  quarters,  so  we  dedicated  the 
little  porch  fly  to  other  uses.  A  waterproof  ground 

141 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


cloth  was  spread  between  our  stretcher  beds,  and  upon 
the  latter,  as  mentioned  before,  were  our  sleeping- 
bags;  also  our  various  bundles,  cozily  and  conven 
iently  bestowed.  It  was  an  inviting  interior,  on  the 
whole — something  to  anticipate,  as  I  have  said. 

Yet  our  beds  were  not  perfect.  Few  things  are. 
I  am  a  rather  large  man,  and  about  three  o'clock  in 
the  morning  I  was  likely  to  wake  up  somewhat 
cramped  and  pinched  together  from  being  so  long 
in  the  little  canvas  trough,  with  no  good  way  of  put 
ting  out  my  arms;  besides  being  a  little  cold,  maybe, 
because  about  that  hour  the  temperature  seemed  to 
make  a  specialty  of  dropping  low  enough  to  get  under 
neath  one's  couch  and  creep  up  around  the  back  and 
shoulders.  It  is  true  it  was  June,  but  June  nights  in 
Nova  Scotia  have  a  way  of  forgetting  that  it  is 
drowsy,  scented  summertime;  and  I  recall  now  times 
when  I  looked  out  through  the  tent  flap  and  saw  the 
white  frost  gleaming  on  the  trees,  and  wondered  if 
there  was  any  sum  of  money  too  big  to  exchange  for 
a  dozen  blankets  or  so,  and  if,  on  the  whole,  perishing 
as  I  was,  I  would  not  be  justified  in  drugging  Eddie 
and  taking  possession  of  his  sleeping-bag.  He  had 
already  given  me  one  of  the  woolen  pockets,  for 
compared  with  mine  his  was  a  genuine  Arctic  affair, 
and,  I  really  believe,  kept  him  disgustingly  warm, 
even  when  I  was  freezing.  I  was  grateful,  of  course, 
for  I  should  have  perished  early  in  the  fight  without 
it.  I  was  also  appreciative.  I  knew  just  how  much 

142 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


warmer  a  few  more  of  those  soft,  fleecy  pockets  would 
make  me,  especially  on  those  nights  when  I  woke 
about  the  cheerless  hour  of  three,  to  find  the  world 
all  hard  and  white,  with  the  frost  fingers  creeping 
down  my  shoulder  blades  and  along  my  spine.  Then 
it  was  I  would  work  around  and  around — slowly  and 
with  due  deliberation  of  movement,  for  a  sleeping- 
bag  is  not  a  thing  of  sudden  and  careless  revolution — 
trying  to  find  some  position  or  angle  wherein  the  cold 
would  not  so  easily  and  surely  find  my  vitals.  At 
such  a  time,  the  desire  for  real  comfort  and  warmth 
is  acute,  and  having  already  one  of  Eddie's  pockets 
and  realizing  its  sterling  worth — also  that  no  more 
than  two  feet  away  from  me  he  lay  warm  and  snug, 
buried  in  the  undue  luxury  of  still  other  pockets — I 
may  confess  now  I  was  goaded  almost  to  the  point 
of  arising  and  taking  peremptory  possession  of  the 
few  paltry  pockets  that  would  make  my  lot  less  hard. 
Sooner  or  later,  I  suppose,  I  should  have  murdered 
Eddie  for  his  blankets  if  he  had  not  been  good  to  me 
in  so  many  ways.  Daily  he  gave  me  leaders,  lines, 
new  flies  and  such  things;  nightly  he  painted  my 
scratches  with  new  skin.  On  the  slightest  provocation 
he  would  have  rubbed  me  generously  with  liniment, 
for  he  had  a  new,  unopened  bottle  which  he  was 
dying  to  try.  Then  there  was  scarcely  an  evening 
after  I  was  in  bed — I  was  always  first  to  go,  for 
Eddie  liked  to  prepare  his  bed  unhurriedly — that  he 
did  not  bring  me  a  drink,  and  comfort  me  with  some- 

143 


"  Nightly  he  painted  my  scratches  with  new  skin." 

thing  nice  to  eat,  and  maybe  sing  a  little  while  he  was 
"  tickling  "  his  own  bed  (there  is  no  other  name  for 
it),  and  when  he  had  finished  with  the  countless  little 
tappings,  and  pattings,  and  final  touches  which  insured 
the  reposeful  comfort  of  his  couch,  he  would  place 
the  candle  lantern  just  between,  where  each  could  see 
equally  well  and  so  read  a  little  in  order  that  we  might 
compose  our  minds  for  rest. 

144 


Chapter  Sixteen 

Now  snug,  the  camp — the  candle-lamp, 

Alighted  stands  between — 
/  follow  "Alice"  in  her  tramp 

And  you  your  "  Folly  Queen." 


Chapter  Sixteen 

IN  the  matter  of  Eddie's  reading,  however,  I  was 
not  wholly  satisfied.  When  we  had  been  leav 
ing  the  little  hotel,  he  had  asked  me,  suddenly, 
what  I  would  take  for  reading  in  the  woods.  He 
added  that  he  always  read  a  little  at  night,  upon 
retiring,  and  from  his  manner  of  saying  it,  I  assumed 
that  such  reading  might  be  of  a  religious  nature. 

Now,  I  had  not  previously  thought  of  taking  any 
thing,  but  just  then  I  happened  to  notice  lying  upon 
the  table  a  copy  of  "  Alice  in  Wonderland,"  evidently 
belonging  to  the  premises,  and  I  said  I  would  take 
that.  I  had  not  foregathered  with  Alice  and  the 
White  Rabbit  for  a  good  while,  and  it  seemed  to  me 
that  in  the  depths  of  an  enchanted  wood  I  might 
properly  and  profitably  renew  their  acquaintance. 
The  story  would  hardly  offend  Eddie,  even  while  he 
was  finding  solace  in  his  prayer-book. 

I  was  only  vaguely  troubled  when  on  the  first  night 
of  our  little  reading  exercise  I  noticed  that  Eddie's 
book  was  not  of  the  sort  which  I  had  been  led  to 
expect,  but  was  a  rather  thick,  suspicious-looking 
affair,  paper-bound.  Still,  I  reflected,  it  might  be  an 
ecclesiastical  treatise,  or  even  what  is  known  as  a 
theological  novel,  and  being  absorbed  just  then  in  an 

147 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


endeavor  to  accompany  Alice  into  the  wonderful  gar 
den  I  did  not  investigate. 

What  was  my  surprise — my  shock,  I  may  say — 
next  morning,  on  picking  up  the  volume,  to  discover 
that  it  was  printed  in  a  foreign  language,  and  that 
language  French — always  a  suspicious  thing  in  print 
— and  to  learn  further,  when  by  dint  of  recalling  old 
school  exercises,  I  had  spelled  out  the  author's  name 
and  a  sentence  here  and  there,  tjiat  not  only  was  it  in 
that  suspicious  language,  but  that  it  was  a  novel, 
and  of  a  sort — well,  of  course  there  is  only  one  thing 
worse  than  an  English  translation  of  a  French  novel, 
and  that  is  a  French  novel  which  cannot  be  trans 
lated — by  any  one  in  this  country,  I  mean,  who  hopes 
to  keep  out  of  jail. 

I  became  absorbed  in  an  endeavor  to  unravel  a 
passage  here  and  there  myself.  But  my  French  train 
ing  had  not  fitted  me  for  the  task.  My  lessons  had 
been  all  about  the  silk  gloves  of  my  uncle's  children 
or  of  the  fine  leather  shoes  of  my  mother's  aunt,  and 
such  innocent  things.  I  could  find  no  reference  to 
them  in  Eddie's  book.  In  fact  I  found  on  almost 
every  page  reference  to  things  which  had  nothing  to 
do  with  wardrobe  of  any  sort,  and  there  were  words 
of  which  I  had  the  deepest  suspicion.  I  was  tempted 
to  fling  the  volume  from  me  with  a  burning  blush  of 
shame.  Certainly  it  was  necessary  to  protest  against 
the  introduction  of  the  baleful  French  novel  into  this 
sylvan  retreat. 

148 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


I  did  so,  later  in  the  day,  but  it  was  no  use.  Eddie 
had  already  gulped  down  some  twenty  pages  of  the 
poison  and  would  not  listen  to  reason.  There  was  a 
duchess  in  the  book,  and  I  knew  immediately  from  the 
lame  excuses  he  made  for  this  person  that  she  was  not 
at  all  a  proper  associate  for  Eddie,  especially  in  this 
remote  place.  I  pleaded  in  vain.  He  had  overtaken 
the  duchess  on  the  third  page,  and  the  gaud  of  her 
beauty  was  in  his  eyes.  So  it  came  to  pass  that  while 
I  was  following  gentle  little  Alice  and  the  White 
Rabbit  through  a  land  of  wonder  and  dreams,  Eddie, 
by  the  light  of  the  same  candle,  was  chasing  this 
butterfly  of  folly  through  a  French  court  at  the  rate 
of  some  twenty  finely  printed  pages  every  night,  trans 
lating  aloud  here  and  there,  until  it  sometimes  became 
necessary  for  me  to  blow  out  the  candle  peremptorily, 
in  order  that  both  of  us  might  compose  our  minds  for 
needed  slumber. 

Perhaps  I  am  dwelling  unnecessarily  upon  our  camp 
detail,  but,  after  all,  the  tent,  with  its  daily  and  nightly 
round  becomes  a  rather  important  thing  when  it  is 
to  be  a  habitation  for  a  period  of  weeks  of  sun  and 
storm;  and  any  little  gem  of  experience  may  not  be 
wholly  unwasted. 

Then  there  is  the  matter  of  getting  along  without 
friction,  which  seems  important.  A  tent  is  a  small 
place,  and  is  likely  to  contain  a  good  many  things — 
especially  in  bad  weather — besides  yourselves.  If  you 
can  manage  to  have  your  things  so  the  other  fellow 

149 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


will  stumble  over  them  as  infrequently  as  possible, 
it  is  just  as  well  for  him,  and  safer  for  you.  Also, 
for  the  things.  Then,  too,  if  you  will  make  your 
beds  at  separate  times,  as  we  did,  one  remaining  out 
side,  or  lying  in  a  horizontal  position  among  his  own 
supplies  while  the  other  is  in  active  operation,  you 
are  less  likely  to  rub  against  each  other,  which  some 
times  means  to  rub  in  the  wr^ong  direction,  with  un 
happy  results.  Of  course  forbearance  is  not  a  bad 
asset  to  have  along,  and  a  small  measure  of  charity 
and  consideration.  It  is  well  to  take  one's  sense  of 
humor,  too,  and  any  little  remnant  of  imagination 
one  may  have  lying  about  handy  at  the  moment  of 
starting.  Many  a  well-constructed  camp  has  gone 
to  wreck  during  a  spell  of  bad  weather  because  one 
or  more  of  its  occupants  did  not  bring  along  imagina 
tion  and  a  sense  of  humor,  or  failed  to  produce  these 
articles  at  the  critical  moment.  Imagination  beautifies 
many  a  desolate  outlook — a  laugh  helps  over  many  a 
hard  place. 


150 


Cljapter  ikbenteen 

Oh,  the  pulses  leap  where  the  fall  is  steep, 
And  the  rocks  rise  grim  and  dark, 

With  the  swirl  and  sweep  of  the  rapids  deep, 
And  the  joy  of  the  racing  bark. 


Cfjapter  i-kfoenteen 

WE  established  a  good  camp  on  the  Shelburne 
and  remained  in  it  for  several  days.  For 
one  thing,  our  canoes  needed  a  general 
overhauling  after  that  hard  day  on  the  rocks.  Also, 
it  rained  nightly,  and  now  and  then  took  a  turn  at  it 
during  the  day,  to  keep  in  practice. 

We  minded  the  rain,  of  course,  as  it  kept  us  forever 
cooking  our  clothes,  and  restrained  a  good  deal  of 
activity  about  the  camp.  Still,  we  argued  that  it  was 
a  good  thing,  for  there  was  no  telling  what  sort  of 
water  lay  ahead  and  a  series  of  rock-strewn  rapids 
with  low  water  might  mean  trouble. 

On  the  whole,  we  were  willing  to  stay  and  put  up 
with  a  good  deal  for  the  sport  in  that  long  pool. 
There  may  be  better  fishing  on  earth  than  in  the  Shel 
burne  River  between  Irving  and  Sand  lakes,  but  it 
will  take  something  more  than  mere  fisherman's  gos 
sip  to  convince  either  Eddie  or  me  of  that  possibility. 
We  left  the  guides  and  went  out  together  one  morn 
ing,  and  in  less  than  three  hours  had  taken  full  fifty 
fish  of  a  pound  each,  average  weight.  We  took  off 
our  top  flies  presently  and  fished  with  only  one,  which 
kept  us  busy  enough,  and  always  one  of  us  had  a 
taut  line  and  a  curved  rod;  often  both  at  one  time. 

153 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


We  began  to  try  experiments  at  last,  and  I  took  a 
good  fish  on  one  of  the  funny  little  scale-winged  flies 
(I  had  happily  lost  the  Jock  Scott  with  two  hooks 
early  in  the  campaign)  and  finally  got  a  big  fellow 
by  merely  tying  a  bit  of  white  absorbent  cotton  to  a 
plain  black  hook. 

Yet  curious  are  the  ways  of  fish.  For  on  the  next 
morning — a  perfect  trout  day,  with  a  light  southwest 
wind  and  running  clouds,  after  a  night  of  showers — 
never  a  rise  could  we  get.  We  tried  all  the  casts 
of  the  day  before — the  Parmcheenie,  the  Jenny 
Lind,  the  Silver  Doctor  and  the  Brown  Hackle.  It 
was  no  use.  Perhaps  the  half  a  hundred  big  fellows 
we  had  returned  to  the  pool  had  warned  all  the 
others ;  perhaps  there  was  some  other  unwritten,  occult 
law  which  prohibited  trout  from  feasting  on  this 
particular  day.  Finally  Eddie,  by  some  chance,  put 
on  a  sort  of  a  Brown  Hackle  affair  with  a  red  piece 
of  wool  for  a  tail — he  called  it  a  Red  Tag  fly,  I  think 
— and  straightway  from  out  of  the  tarry  black 
depths  there  rose  such  a  trout  as  neither  of  us  had 
seen  the  day  before. 

After  that,  there  was  nothing  the  matter  with 
Eddie's  fishing.  What  there  was  about  this  brown, 
red-tailed  joke  that  tickled  the  fancy  of  those  great 
silly  trout,  who  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  any 
other  lure,  is  not  for  me  to  say.  The  creature  cer 
tainly  looked  like  nothing  that  ever  lived,  or  that 
they  could  ever  have  imagined  before.  It  seemed  to 

154 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


me  a  particularly  idiotic  combination  and  I  could  feel 
my  respect  for  the  intelligence  of  trout  waning. 
Eddie  agreed  with  me  as  to  that.  He  said  he  had 
merely  bought  the  thing  because  it  happened  to  be  the 
only  fly  he  didn't  have  in  his  collection  and  there  had 
been  a  vacant  place  in  his  fly-book.  He  said  it  was 
funny  the  trout  should  go  for  it  as  they  did,  and  he 
laughed  a  good  deal  about  it.  I  suppose  it  was  funny, 
but  I  did  not  find  it  very  amusing.  And  how  those 
crazy-headed  trout  did  act.  In  vain  I  picked  out  flies 
with  the  red  and  brown  colors  and  tossed  them  as 
carefully  as  I  could  in  just  the  same  spots  where  Eddie 
was  getting  those  great  whoppers  at  every  cast.  Some 
mysterious  order  from  the  high  priest  of  all  trout  had 
gone  forth  that  morning,  prohibiting  every  sort  and 
combination  of  trout  food  except  this  absurd  creature 
of  which  the  oldest  and  mossiest  trout  had  never 
dreamed.  That  was  why  they  went  for  it.  It  was 
the  only  thing  not  down  on  the  list  of  proscribed 
items. 

There  was  nothing  for  me  to  do  at  last  but  to 
paddle  Eddie  around  and  watch  him  do  some  of  the 
most  beautiful  fishing  I  have  ever  seen,  and  to  net  his 
trout  for  him,  and  take  off  the  fish,  and  attend  to 
any  other  little  wants  incident  to  a  fisherman's  busy 
day.  I  did  it  with  as  good  grace  as  I  could,  of  course, 
and  said  I  enjoyed  it,  and  tried  not  to  be  nasty  and 
disagreeable  in  my  attitude  toward  the  trout,  the 
water,  Eddie,  and  the  camp  and  country  in  general. 

155 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


But,  after  all,  it  is  a  severe  test,  on  a  day  like  that, 
to  cast  and  cast  and  change  flies  until  you  have  wet 
every  one  in  your  book,  without  even  a  rise,  and  to 
see  the  other  chap  taking  great  big  black  and  mottled 
fellows — to  see  his  rod  curved  like  a  whip  and  to 
watch  the  long,  lithe  body  leaping  and  gleaming  in 
the  net. 

But  the  final  test,  the  climax,  was  to  come  at  even 
ing.  For  when  the  fish  would  no  longer  rise,  even 
to  the  Red  Tag,  we  pulled  up  to  the  camp,  where 
Eddie  of  course  reported  to  the  guides  his  triumph 
and  my  discomfiture.  Then,  just  as  he  was  opening 
his  fly-book  to  put  the  precious  red-tailed  mockery 
away,  he  suddenly  stopped  and  stared  at  me,  hesi 
tated,  and  held  up  another — that  is,  two  of  them,  side 
by  side. 

"  So  help  me !  "  he  swore,  "  I  didn't  know  I  had 
it !  I  must  have  forgotten  I  had  one,  and  bought 
another,  at  another  time.  Now,  I  had  forgotten 
that,  too.  So  help  me !  " 

If  I  hadn't  known  Eddie  so  well — his  proclivity  for 
buying,  and  forgetting,  and  buying  over  again — also 
his  sterling  honor  and  general  moral  purity — the 
fishes  would  have  got  him  then,  Red  Tag  and  all.  As 
it  was,  I  condescended  to  accept  the  second  fly.  I 
agreed  that  it  was  not  such  a  bad  production,  after 
all,  though  I  altered  my  opinion  again,  next  morning, 
for  whatever  had  been  the  embargo  laid  on  other 
varieties  of  trout  bait  the  day  before,  it  was  off  now, 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


and  there  was  a  general  rising  to  anything  we  offered 
— Doctors,  Parmcheenie,  Absorbent  Cotton — any 
old  thing  that  skimmed  the  water  and  looked  big  and 
succulent. 

We  broke  camp  that  morning  and  dropped  down 
toward  the  next  lake — Sand  Lake,  it  would  be,  by 
our  crude  map  and  hazy  directions.  There  are  no 
better  rapids  and  there  is  no  more  lively  fishing  than 
we  had  on  that  run.  There  was  enough  water  for 
us  to  remain  in  the  canoes,  and  it  was  for  the  most 
part  whirling,  swirling,  dashing,  leaping  water — 
shooting  between  great  bowlders — plunging  among 
cruel-looking  black  rocks — foaming  into  whirlpools 
below,  that  looked  ready  to  swamp  our  light  craft, 
with  stores,  crew,  tackle,  everything. 

It  was  my  first  exhibition  of  our  guides'  skill  in 
handling  their  canoes.  How  they  managed  to  just 
evade  a  sharp  point  of  rock  on  one  side  and  by  a 
quick  twist  escape  shipwreck  from  a  bowlder  or  mass 
of  bowlders  on  the  other,  I  fail  to  comprehend.  Then 
there  were  narrow  boiling  channels,  so  full  of  obstruc 
tions  that  I  did  not  believe  a  chip  could  go  through 
with  entire  safety.  Yet  somehow  Del  the  Stout  and 
Charles  the  Strong  seemed  to  know,  though  they  had 
never  traveled  this  water  before,  just  where  the  water 
would  let  the  boats  pass,  just  where  the  stones 
were  wide  enough  to  let  us  through — touching  on 
both  sides,  sometimes,  and  ominously  scraping  on  the 
bottom,  but  sliding  and  teetering  into  the  cauldron 

157 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


below,  where  somehow  we  did  not  perish,  perhaps 
because  we  shot  so  quickly  through  the  foam.  In  the 
beginning  I  remembered  a  few  brief  and  appropriate 
prayers,  from  a  childhood  where  such  things  were  a 
staff  of  comfort,  and  so  made  my  peace  with  the  world 
each  time  before  we  took  the  desperate  plunge.  But 
as  nothing  seemed  to  happen — nothing  fatal,  I  mean 
— I  presently  gave  myself  up  to  the  pure  enjoyment  of 
the  tumult  and  exhilaration,  without  disturbing  myself 
as  to  dangers  here  or  hereafter. 

I  do  not  believe  the  times  that  the  guides  got  out 
of  the  canoes  to  ease  them  over  hard  places  would 
exceed  twice,  and  not  oftener  than  that  were  we  called 
on  to  assist  them  with  the  paddles.  Even  when  we 
wished  to  do  so,  we  were  often  requested  to  go  on 
fishing,  for  the  reason,  I  suppose,  that  in  such  a  place 
one's  unskilled  efforts  are  likely  to  be  misdirected  with 
fatal  results.  Somewhat  later  we  were  to  have  an 
example  of  this  kind — but  I  anticipate. 

We  went  on  fishing.  I  never  saw  so  many  fish.  We 
could  take  them  as  we  shot  a  rapid,  we  could  scoop 
them  in  as  we  leaped  a  fall.  They  seemed  to  be 
under  every  stone  and  lying  in  wait.  There  were 
great  black  fellows  in  every  maelstrom;  there  were 
groups  holding  receptions  for  us  in  the  stillwater  pools 
below.  It  is  likely  that  that  bit  of  the  Shelburne  River 
had  not  been  fished  before  within  the  memory  of  any 
trout  then  living,  and  when  those  red  and  blue  and 
yellow  flies  came  tumbling  at  them,  they  must  have 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


thought  it  was  "  great  day  in  the  morning  "  and  that 
the  white-faced  prophets  of  big  feeding  had  come. 
For  years,  the  trout  we  returned  to  those  pools  will 
tell  their  friends  and  descendants  of  the  marvels  and 
enchantments  of  that  day. 

I  had  given  up  my  noibwood  as  being  too  strenuous 
in  its  demands  for  constant  fishing,  but  I  laid  aside 
the  light  bamboo  here  in  this  high-pressure  current 
and  with  this  high-speed  fishing,  where  trout  some 
times  leaped  clear  of  the  water  for  the  fly  cast  on  the 
foam  far  ahead,  to  be  swinging  a  moment  later  at  the 
end  of  the  line  almost  as  far  behind.  No  very  deli 
cate  rod  would  improve  under  a  strain  like  that,  and 
the  tough  old  noibwood  held  true,  and  nobody  cared 
— at  least  I  didn't — whether  the  tip  stayed  set  or 
not.  It  was  bent  double  most  of  the  time,  anyway, 
and  the  rest  of  the  time  didn't  matter. 

I  don't  know  how  many  fish  I  took  that  day,  but 
Eddie  kept  count  of  his,  and  recorded  a  total  of 
seventy-four  between  camp  and  the  great,  splendid 
pool  where  the  Shelburne  foams  out  into  Sand  Lake, 
four  miles  or  such  a  matter,  below. 

I  do  know  that  we  lost  two  landing  nets  in  that 
swift  water,  one  apiece,  and  this  was  a  serious  matter, 
for  there  were  but  two  more,  both  Eddie's,  and  land 
ing  nets  in  the  wilderness  are  not  easy  to  replace.  Of 
fish  we  kept  possibly  a  dozen,  the  smallest  ones.  The 
others — larger  and  wiser  now — are  still  frolicking  in 
the  waters  of  the  Shelburne,  unless  some  fish-hog  has 

159 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


found  his  way  to  that  fine  water,  which  I  think  doubt 
ful,  for  a  fish-hog  is  usually  too  lazy  and  too  stingy 
to  spend  the  effort  and  time  and  money  necessary  to 
get  there. 


1 60 


Chapter  eighteen 

There's  nothing  that's  worse  for  sport,  I  guess, 

Than  killing  to  throw  away ; 
And  there's  nothing  that's  better  for  recklessness 

Than  having  a  price  to  pay. 


Cfwpter  €tst)teen 

WE  had  other  camp  diversions  besides  read 
ing.  We  had  shooting  matches,  almost 
daily,  one  canoe  against  the  other,  usually 
at  any  stop  we  happened  to  make,  whether  for  lun 
cheon  or  to  repair  the  canoes,  or  merely  to  prospect 
the  country.  On  rainy  days,  and  sometimes  in  the 
evening,  we  played  a  game  of  cards  known  under 
various  names — I  believe  we  called  it  pedro.  At  all 
events,  you  bid,  and  buy,  and  get  set  back,  and  have 
less  when  you  get  through  than  you  had  before  you 
began.  Anyhow,  that  is  what  my  canoe  did  on  sundry 
occasions.  I  am  still  convinced  that  Del  and  I  played 
better  cards  than  the  other  canoe,  though  the  score 
would  seem  to  show  a  different  result.  We  were 
brilliant  and  speculative  in  our  playing.  They  were 
plodders  and  not  really  in  our  class.  Genius  and 
dash  are  wasted  on  such  persons. 

I  am  equally  certain  that  our  shooting  was  much 
worse  than  theirs,  though  the  percentage  of  misses 
seemed  to  remain  in  their  favor.  In  the  matter  of 
bull's-eyes — whenever  such  accidents  came  along — 
they  happened  to  the  other  canoe,  but  perhaps  this 
excited  our  opponents,  for  there  followed  periods  of 
wildness  when,  if  their  shots  struck  anywhere,  it  was 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


impossible  to  identify  the  places.  At  such  periods 
Eddie  was  likely  to  claim  that  the  cartridges  were 
blanks,  and  perhaps  they  were.  As  for  Del  and  me, 
our  luck  never  varied  like  that.  It  remained  about 
equally  bad  from  day  to  day — just  bad  enough  to 
beat  the  spectacular  fortunes  of  Eddie  and  Charles 
the  Strong. 

In  the  matter  of  wing-shooting,  however — that  is 
to  say,  shooting  when  we  were  on  the  wing  and  any 
legitimate  quarry  came  in  view — my  recollection  is 
that  we  ranked  about  alike.  Neither  of  us  by  any 
chance  ever  hit  anything  at  all,  and  I  have  an  impres 
sion  that  our  misses  were  about  equally  wide.  Eddie 
may  make  a  different  claim.  He  may  claim  that  he 
fired  oftener  and  with  less  visible  result  than  I.  Pos 
sibly  he  did  fire  oftener,  for  he  had  a  repeating  rifle 
and  I  only  a  single  shot,  but  so  far  as  the  result  is 
concerned,  if  he  states  that  his  bullets  flew  wider  of 
the  mark,  such  a  claim  is  the  result  of  pure  envy, 
perhaps  malice.  Why,  I  recall  one  instance  of  a 
muskrat  whose  skin  Eddie  was  particularly  desirous 
of  sending  to  those  museum  folks  in  London — all 
properly  mounted,  with  their  names  (Eddie's  and  the 
muskrat's)  on  a  neat  silver  plate,  so  that  it  could 
stand  there  and  do  honor  to  us  for  a  long  time — until 
the  moths  had  eaten  up  everything  but  the  plate,  per 
haps,  and  Eddie  struck  the  water  within  two  or  three 
feet  of  it  (the  muskrat,  of  course)  as  much  as  a  dozen 
times,  while  such  shots  as  I  let  go  didn't  hit  anything 

164 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


but  the  woods  or  the  sky  and  are,  I  suppose,  still 
buried  somewhere  in  the  quiet  bosom  of  nature.  I 
am  glad  to  unload  that  sentence.  It  was  getting  top- 
heavy,  with  a  muskrat  and  moths  and  a  silver  plate 
in  it.  I  could  shoot  some  holes  in  it  with  a  little 
practice,  but  inasmuch  as  we  didn't  get  the  muskrat, 
I  will  let  it  stand  as  a  stuffed  specimen. 

I  am  also  glad  about  the  muskrat.  Had  he  per 
ished,  our  pledge  would  have  compelled  us  to  eat  him, 
and  although  one  of  Eddie's  text-books  told  a  good 
deal  about  their  food  value  and  seven  different  ways 
of  cooking  them,  I  was  averse  to  experimenting  even 
with  one  way.  I  have  never  really  cared  for  musk- 
rats  since  as  a  lad  I  caught  twenty  of  them  one  night 
in  a  trammel  net.  Up  to  that  hour  the  odor  of 
musk  had  never  been  especially  offensive  to  me,  but 
twenty  muskrats  in  a  net  can  compound  a  good  deal 
of  perfumery.  We  had  to  bury  the  net,  and  even 
then  I  never  cared  much  about  it  afterwards.  The 
sight  of  it  stirred  my  imagination,  and  I  was  glad 
when  it  was  ripped  away  from  us  by  a  swift  current 
one  dark  night,  it  being  unlawful  to  set  a  trammel 
net  in  that  river,  and  therefore  sinful,  by  daylight. 

It  was  on  Sand  Lake  that  Eddie  gave  the  first 
positive  demonstration  of  his  skill  as  a  marksman. 
Here,  he  actually  made  a  killing.  True,  it  was  not 
a  wing  shot,  but  it  was  a  performance  worthy  of 
record.  A  chill  wet  wind  blew  in  upon  us  as  we  left 
the  river,  and  a  mist  such  as  we  had  experienced  on 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


Irving  Lake,  with  occasional  drifts  of  rain,  shut  us 
in.  At  first  it  was  hard  to  be  certain  that  we  were 
really  on  a  lake,  for  the  sheet  of  water  was  long  and 
narrow,  and  it  might  be  only  a  widening  of  the  river. 
But  presently  we  came  to  an  island,  and  this  we 
accepted  as  identification.  It  was  the  customary 
island,  larger  than  some,  but  with  the  bushes  below, 
the  sentinel  pines,  and  here  and  there  a  gaunt  old 
snag — bleached  and  dead  and  lifting  its  arms  to  the 
sky.  On  one  of  these  "  dead  ones  "  we  made  out, 
through  the  mist,  a  strange  dark  bunch  about  the 
size  of  a  barn  door  and  of  rather  irregular  formation. 
Gradually  nearing,  we  discovered  the  bunch  to  be 
owls — great  horned  owls — a  family  of  them,  grouped 
on  the  old  tree's  limbs  in  solid  formation,  oblivious 
to  the  rain,  to  the  world,  to  any  thought  of  approach 
ing  danger. 

Now,  the  great  horned  owl  is  legitimate  quarry. 
The  case  against  him  is  that  he  is  a  bird  of  prey — a 
destroyer  of  smaller  birds  and  an  enemy  of  hen  roosts. 
Of  course  if  one  wanted  to  go  deeply  into  the  ethics 
of  the  matter,  one  might  say  that  the  smaller  birds  and 
the  chickens  are  destroyers,  too,  of  bugs  and  grass 
hoppers  and  things,  and  that  a  life  is  a  life,  whether 
it  be  a  bird  or  a  bumble-bee,  or  even  a  fish-worm.  But 
it's  hard  to  get  to  the  end  of  such  speculations  as 
that.  Besides,  the  owl  was  present,  and  we  wanted 
his  skin.  Eddie  crept  close  in  with  his  canoe,  and 
drew  a  careful  bead  on  the  center  of  the  barn  door. 

1 66 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


There  was  an  angry  little  spit  of  powder  in  the  wet, 
a  wavering  movement  of  the  dark,  mist-draped  bunch, 
a  slow  heaving  of  ghostly  pinions  and  four  silent, 
feathered  phantoms  drifted  away  into  the  white 
gloom.  But  there  was  one  that  did  not  follow.  In 
vain  the  dark  wings  heaved  and  fell.  Then  there 
came  a  tottering  movement,  a  leap  forward,  and  half- 
fluttering,  half-plunging,  the  heavy  body  came  swish 
ing  to  the  ground. 

Yet  unused  to  the  battle  as  he  was,  for  he  was  of 
the  younger  brood,  he  died  game.  When  we  reached 
him  he  was  sitting  upright,  glaring  out  of  his  great 
yellow  eyes,  his  talons  poised  for  defense.  Even  with 
Eddie's  bottle  of  new  skin  in  reserve,  it  was  not  con 
sidered  safe  to  approach  too  near.  We  photographed 
him  as  best  we  could,  and  then  a  shot  at  close  range 
closed  his  brief  career. 

I  examined  the  owl  with  considerable  interest.  In 
the  first  place  I  had  never  seen  one  of  this  noble 
species  before,  and  this  was  a  beautiful  specimen. 
Also,  his  flesh,  being  that  of  a  young  bird,  did  not 
appeal  to  warrant  the  expression  "  tough  as  a  boiled 
owl,"  which  the  others  remembered  almost  in  a  chorus 
when  I  referred  to  our  agreement  concerning  the 
food  test  of  such  game  as  we  brought  down.  I  don't 
think  any  of  us  wanted  to  eat  that  owl.  I  know  I 
didn't,  but  I  had  weakened  once — on  the  porcupine,  it 
may  be  remembered — and  the  death  of  that  porcupine 
rested  heavily  upon  me,  especially  when  I  remem- 


The    Tent  Dwellers 


bered  how  he  had  whined  and  grieved  in  the  moment 
of  dying.  I  think  I  had  a  notion  that  eating  the  owl 
would  in  some  measure  atone  for  the  porcupine.  I 
said,  with  such  firmness  as  I  could  command,  and  all 
day  I  repeated  at  intervals,  that  we  would  eat  the  owl. 

We  camped  rather  early  that  afternoon,  for  it  was 
not  pleasant  traveling  in  the  chill  mist,  and  the  pros 
pect  of  the  campfire  and  a  snug  tent  was  an  ever- 
present  temptation.  I  had  suggested,  also,  that  we 
ought  to  go  ashore  in  time  to  cook  the  owl  for  supper. 
It  might  take  time  to  cook  him. 

We  did  not  especially  need  the  owl.  We  had 
saved  a  number  of  choice  small  trout  and  we  were  still 
able  to  swallow  them  when  prepared  in  a  really 
palatable  form.  Eddie,  it  is  true,  had  condemned 
trout  at  breakfast,  and  declared  he  would  have  no 
more  of  them,  but  this  may  have  been  because  there 
were  flap-jacks.  He  showed  no  disposition  to  con 
demn  them  now.  When  I  mentioned  the  nice,  tender 
owl  meat  which  we  were  to  have,  he  really  looked 
longingly  at  the  trout  and  spoke  of  them  as  juicy  little 
fellows,  such  as  he  had  always  liked.  I  agreed  that 
they  would  be  good  for  the  first  course,  and  that  a 
bird  for  supper  would  make  out  a  sumptuous  meal. 
I  have  never  known  Eddie  to  be  so  kind  to  me  as  he 
was  about  this  time.  He  offered  me  some  leaders  and 
flies  and  even  presented  me  with  a  silver-mounted 
briar-root  pipe,  brought  all  the  way  from  London. 
I  took  the  things,  but  I  did  not  soften  my  heart.  I 

168 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


was  born  in  New  England  and  have  a  conscience. 
I  cannot  be  bribed  like  that. 

I  told  the  guides  that  it  would  be  better  to  begin 
supper  right  away,  in  order  that  we  might  not  get 
too  hungry  before  the  owl  was  done.  I  thought  them 
slow  in  their  preparations  for  the  meal.  It  was  curi 
ous,  too,  for  I  had  promised  them  they  should  have 
a  piece  of  the  bird.  Del  was  generous.  He  said  he 
would  give  his  to  Charles.  That  he  never  really 
cared  much  for  birds,  anyhow.  Why,  once,  he  said, 
he  shot  a  partridge  and  gave  it  away,  and  he  was 
hungry,  too.  He  gave  it  to  a  boy  that  happened 
along  just  then,  and  when  another  partridge  flew  up 
he  didn't  even  offer  to  shoot  it.  We  didn't  take 
much  stock  in  that  story  until  it  dawned  upon  us  that 
he  had  shot  the  bird  out  of  season,  and  the  boy  had 
happened  along  just  in  time  to  be  incriminated  by 
accepting  it  as  a  present.  It  was  better  to  have  him 
as  a  partner  than  a  witness. 

As  for  Charles,  he  affected  to  be  really  eager  for 
owl  meat.  He  said  that  all  his  life  he  had  looked 
forward  to  this  time.  Still,  he  was  slow,  I  thought. 
He  seemed  about  as  eager  for  supper  as  a  boy  is  to 
carry  in  the  evening  wood.  He  said  that  one  of  the 
canoes  leaked  a  little  and  ought  to  be  pitched  right 
away.  I  said  it  was  altogether  too  damp  for  such 
work  and  that  the  canoe  would  wait  till  morning. 
Then  he  wanted  to  look  up  a  spring,  though  there 
were  two  or  three  in  plain  sight,  within  twenty  yards 

169 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


of  the  camp.  I  suspected  at  last  that  he  was  not 
really  anxious  to  cook  the  owl  and  was  trying  to 
postpone  the  matter  until  it  was  too  late  for  him  (the 
owl)  to  get  properly  done  before  bedtime.  Then  I 
became  firm.  I  said  that  a  forest  agreement  was 
sacred.  That  we  were  pledged  to  the  owl  before  we 
shot  him,  and  that  we  would  keep  our  promise  to  the 
dead,  even  to  the  picking  of  his  bones. 

Wood  was  gathered  then,  and  the  fire  blazed.  The 
owl's  breast — fat  and  fine  it  looked — was  in  the 
broiler,  and  on  the  fire.  There  it  cooked — and 
cooked.  Then  it  cooked  some  more  and  sent  up  an 
appetizing  smell.  Now  and  then,  I  said  I  thought 
the  time  for  it  had  come,  but  there  was  a  burden  of 
opinion  that  more  cooking  would  benefit  the  owl. 
Meantime,  we  had  eaten  a  pan  or  two  of  trout  and  a 
few  other  things — the  bird  of  course  being  later  in 
the  bill  of  fare.  At  most  dinners  I  have  attended, 
this  course  is  contemplated  with  joy.  It  did  not 
seem  to  be  on  this  occasion.  Eddie  agreed  with  Del 
that  he  had  never  cared  much  for  bird,  anyway,  and 
urged  me  to  take  his  share.  I  refused  to  deprive  him 
of  it.  Then  he  said  he  didn't  feel  well,  and  thought 
he  really  ought  not  to  eat  anything  more.  I  said 
grimly  that  possibly  this  was  true,  but  that  he  would 
eat  the  owl. 

It  was  served  then,  fairly  divided  and  distributed, 
as  food  is  when  men  are  on  short  rations.  I  took 
the  first  taste — I  was  always  venturesome — a  little 

170 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


one.  Then,  immediately,  I  wished  I  had  accepted 
Eddie's  piece.  But  meantime  he  had  tasted,  too — a 
miserly  taste — and  then  I  couldn't  have  got  the  rest 
of  it  for  money. 

For  there  was  never  anything  so  good  as  that 
breast  of  young  owl.  It  was  tender,  it  was  juicy,  it 
was  as  delicately  flavored  as  a  partridge,  almost.  Cer 
tainly  it  was  a  dainty  morsel  to  us  who  had  of  late 
dealt  so  largely  in  fish  diet.  Had  we  known  where 
the  rest  of  that  brood  of  owls  had  flown  to  we  should 
have  started  after  them,  then  and  there. 

Extract  from  my  diary  that  night:  "Eddie  has  been  taken 
with  a  slight  cramp,  and  it  has  occurred  to  him  that  the 
owl  meat,  though  appetizing,  may  be  poisonous.  He  is 
searching  his  medicine  bag  for  remedies.  His  disaster  is 
merely  punishment  for  the  quantity  of  other  food  he  ate 
beforehand,  in  his  futile  effort  to  escape  the  owl." 


171 


Cimpter  Nineteen 

Then  scan  your  map,  and  search  your  plans, 
And  ponder  the  hunter's  guess — 

While  the  sillier  track  of  the  brook  leads  back 
Into  the  wilderness. 


Chapter  Nineteen 

WE  looked  for  moose  again  on  Sand  Lake, 
but   found  only  signs.     On  the  whole,   I 
thought  this  more  satisfactory.     One  does 
not  have  to  go  galloping  up   and  down  among  the 
bushes  and  rocks  to  get  a  glimpse  of  signs,  but  may 
examine  them  leisurely  and  discuss  the  number,  char 
acter  and  probable  age  of  these  records,  preserving 
meanwhile  a  measure  of  repose,  not  to  say  dignity. 

Below  Sand  Lake  a  brook  was  said  to  enter. 
Descending  from  the  upper  interior  country,  it  would 
lead  us  back  into  regions  more  remote  than  any 
heretofore  traveled.  So  far  as  I  could  learn,  neither 
of  our  guides  had  ever  met  any  one  who  even  claimed 
to  know  this  region,  always  excepting  the  imaginative 
Indian  previously  mentioned.  Somewhere  in  these 
uncharted  wilds  this  Indian  person  had  taken  trout 
"  the  size  of  one's  leg." 

Regardless  of  the  dimensions  of  this  story,  it  had 
a  fascination  for  us.  We  wished  to  see  those  trout, 
even  if  they  had  been  overrated.  We  had  been  hurry 
ing,  at  least  in  spirit,  to  reach  the  little  water  gateway 
that  opened  to  a  deeper  unknown  where  lay  a  chain  of 
lakes,  vaguely  set  down  on  our  map  as  the  Tobeatic  * 

*  Pronounced  To-be-at-ic 
175 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


waters.  At  some  time  in  the  past  the  region  had 
been  lumbered,  but  most  of  the  men  who  cut  the 
timber  were  probably  dead  now,  leaving  only  a  little 
drift  of  hearsay  testimony  behind. 

It  was  not  easy  to  find  the  entrance  to  the  hidden 
land.  The  foliage  was  heavy  and  close  along  the 
swampy  shore,  and  from  such  an  ambush  a  still  small 
current  might  flow  unnoticed,  especially  in  the  mist 
that  hung  about  us.  More  than  once  we  were  deceived 
by  some  fancied  ripple  or  the  configuration  of  the 
shore.  Del  at  length  announced  that  just  ahead  was  a 
growth  of  a  kind  of  maple  likely  to  indicate  a  brook 
entrance.  The  shore  really  divided  there  and  a  sandy 
waterway  led  back  somewhere  into  a  mystery  of  vines 
and  trees. 

We  halted  near  the  mouth  of  the  little  stream 
for  lunch  and  consultation.  It  was  not  a  desirable 
place  to  camp.  The  ground  was  low  and  oozy  and 
full  of  large-leaved  greenhousy-looking  plants.  The 
recent  rains  had  not  improved  the  character  of  the 
place.  There  was  poison  ivy  there,  too,  and  a  dele 
gation  of  mosquitoes.  We  might  just  as  well  have 
gone  up  the  brook  a  hundred  yards  or  so,  to  higher 
and  healthier  ground,  but  this  would  not  have  been 
in  accord  with  Eddie's  ideas  of  exploration.  Ex 
plorers,  he  said,  always  stopped  at  the  mouth  of 
rivers  to  debate,  and  to  consult  maps  and  feed  them 
selves  in  preparation  for  unknown  hardships  to  come. 
So  we  stopped  and  sat  around  in  the  mud,  and  looked 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


at  some  marks  on  a  paper — made  by  the  imaginative 
Indian,  I  think — and  speculated  as  to  whether  it 
would  be  possible  to  push  and  drag  the  canoes  up  the 
brook,  or  whether  everything  would  have  to  go  over 
land. 

Personally,  the  prospect  of  either  did  not  fill  me 
with  enthusiasm.  The  size  of  the  brook  did  not 
promise  much  in  the  way  of  important  waters  above 
or  fish  even  the  size  of  one's  arm.  However,  Tobeatic 
exploration  was  down  on  the  cards.  Our  trip  thus 
far  had  furnished  only  a  hint  of  such  mystery  and 
sport  as  was  supposed  to  lie  concealed  somewhere 
beyond  the  green,  from  which  only  this  little  brooklet 
crept  out  to  whisper  the  secret.  Besides,  I  had  learned 
to  keep  still  when  Eddie  had  set  his  heart  on  a  thing. 
I  left  the  others  poring  over  the  hieroglyphic  map, 
and  waded  out  into  the  clean  water  of  the  brook.  As 
I  looked  back  at  Del  and  Charlie,  squatting  there 
amid  the  rank  weeds,  under  the  dark,  dripping  boughs, 
with  Eddie  looking  over  their  shoulders  and  pointing 
at  the  crumpled  paper  ,  spread  before  them,  they 
formed  a  picturesque  group — such  a  one  as  Living 
stone  or  Stanley  and  their  followers  might  have  made 
in  the  African  jungles.  When  I  told  Eddie  of  this 
he  grew  visibly  prouder  and  gave  me  two  new  leaders 
and  some  special  tobacco. 

We  proceeded  up  the  stream,  Eddie  and  I  ahead, 
the  guides  pushing  the  loaded  canoes  behind.  It  was 
the  brook  of  our  forefathers — such  a  stream  as  might 

177 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


flow  through  the  valley  meadows  of  New  England, 
with  trout  of  about  the  New  England  size,  and  plenti 
ful.  Lively  fellows,  from  seven  to  nine  inches  in 
length,  rose  two  and  three  at  almost  every  cast.  We 
put  on  small  flies  and  light  leaders  and  forgot  there 
were  such  things  as  big  trout  in  Nova  Scotia.  It 
was  joyous,  old-fashioned  fishing — a  real  treat  for  a 
change. 

We  had  not  much  idea  how  far  we  were  to  climb 
this  water  stairway,  and  as  the  climb  became  steeper, 
and  the  water  more  swift,  the  guides  pushed  and 
puffed  and  we  gave  them  a  lift  over  the  hard  places — 
that  is,  Eddie  did.  I  was  too  tired  to  do  anything 
but  fish. 

As  a  rule,  the  water  was  shallow,  but  there  were 
deep  holes.  I  found  one  of  them  presently,  by  mis 
take.  It  was  my  habit  to  find  holes  that  way — places 
deeper  than  my  waders,  though  the  latter  came  to 
my  shoulders.  It  seemed  necessary  that  several  times 
daily  I  should  get  my  boots  full  of  water.  When  I 
couldn't  do  it  in  any  other  way  I  would  fall  over  some 
thing  and  let  the  river  run  into  them  for  a  while. 
I  called  to  Eddie  from  where  I  was  wallowing  around, 
trying  to  get  up,  with  my  usual  ballast. 

"  Don't  get  in  here!  "  I  said. 

He  was  helping  the  boys  over  a  hard  place  just 
then,  tugging  and  sweating,  but  he  paused  long 
enough  to  be  rude  and  discourteous. 

"  I  don't  have  to  catch  my  trout  in  my  boots,"  he 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


jeered,  and  the  guides  were  disrespectful  enough  to 
laugh.  I  decided  that  I  would  never  try  to  do  any 
of  them  a  good  turn  again.  Then  suddenly  every 
thing  was  forgotten,  for  a  gate  of  light  opened  out 
ahead,  and  presently  we  pushed  through  and  had 
reached  the  shores  of  as  lovely  a  sheet  of  water  as 
lies  in  the  great  north  woods.  It  was  Tupper  Lake, 
by  our  calculation,  and  it  was  on  the  opposite  side 
that  Tobeatic  Brook  was  said  to  enter.  There,  if 
anywhere,  we  might  expect  to  find  the  traditional 
trout.  So  far  as  we  knew,  no  one  had  looked  on 
these  waters  since  the  old  lumbering  days.  Except 
for  exploration  there  was  no  reason  why  any  one 
should  come.  Of  fish  and  game  there  were  plenty  in 
localities  more  accessible.  To  me,  I  believe  the 
greatest  joy  there,  as  everywhere  in  the  wilderness — 
and  it  was  a  joy  that  did  not  grow  old — was  the 
feeling  that  we  were  in  a  region  so  far  removed  from 
clanging  bells  and  grinding  wheels  and  all  the  useful, 
ugly  attributes  of  mankind. 

We  put  out  across  the  lake.  The  land  rose  rather 
sharply  beyond,  and  from  among  the  trees  there 
tumbled  out  a  white  foaming  torrent  that  made  a  wide 
swirling  green  pool  where  it  entered.  We  swept  in 
below  this  aquarium,  Eddie  taking  one  side  and  I  the 
other.  We  had  on  our  big  flies  now  and  our  heavy 
leaders.  They  were  necessary.  Scarcely  had  a  cast 
gone  sailing  out  over  the  twisting  water  when  a  big 
black  and  gold  shape  leaped  into  the  air  and  Eddie 

179 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


had  his  work  cut  out  for  him.  A  moment  later  my 
own  reel  was  singing,  and  I  knew  by  the  power  and 
savage  rushes  that  I  had  something  unusual  at  the 
other  end. 

"  Trout  as  big  as  your  leg!  "  we  called  across  to 
each  other,  and  if  they  were  not  really  as  big  as  that, 
they  were,  at  all  events,  bigger  than  anything  so  far 
taken — as  big  as  one's  arm  perhaps — one's  forearm, 
at  least,  from  the  hollow  of  the  elbow  to  the  finger 
tips.  You  see  how  impossible  it  is  to  tell  the  truth 
about  a  trout  the  first  time.  I  never  knew  a  fisherman 
who  could  do  it.  There  is  something  about  a  fish  that 
does  not  affiliate  with  fact.  Even  at  the  market  I 
have  known  a  fish  to  weigh  more  than  he  did  when  I 
got  him  home.  We  considered  the  imaginative 
Indian  justified,  and  blessed  him  accordingly. 


180 


Chapter  Ctoentp 

You  may  slip  away  from  a  faithful  friend 

And  thrive  for  an  hour  or  two, 
But  you'd  better  be  fair,  and  you'd  better  be  square, 

Or  something  will  happen  to  you. 


Chapter  Ctoentp 

WE  took  seventeen  of  those  big  fellows  before 
we  landed,  enough  in  all  conscience.  A 
point  just  back  of  the  water  looked  invit 
ing  as  a  place  to  pitch  the  tents,  and  we  decided  to 
land,  for  we  were  tired.  Yet  curious  are  the  ways  of 
fishermen :  having  had  already  too  much,  one  becomes 
greedy  for  still  more.  There  was  an  old  dam  just 
above,  unused  for  a  generation  perhaps,  and  a  long, 
rotting  sluiceway  through  which  poured  a  torrent  of 
water.  It  seemed  just  the  place  for  the  king  of 
trouts,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  try  it  now  before 
Eddie  had  a  chance.  You  shall  see  how  I  was 
punished. 

I  crept  away  when  his  back  was  turned,  taking  his 
best  and  longest-handled  landing  net  (it  may  be 
remembered  I  had  lost  mine),  for  it  would  be  a  deep 
dip  down  into  the  sluice.  The  logs  around  the  prem 
ises  were  old  and  crumbly  and  I  had  to  pick  my  way 
with  care  to  reach  a  spot  from  which  it  would  be 
safe  to  handle  a  big  trout.  I  knew  he  was  there.  I 
never  had  a  stronger  conviction  in  my  life.  The  pro 
jecting  ends  of  some  logs  which  I  chose  for  a  seat 
seemed  fairly  permanent  and  I  made  my  preparations 
with  care.  I  put  on  a  new  leader  and  two  large  new 

183 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


flies.  Then  I  rested  the  net  in  a  handy  place,  took  a 
look  behind  me  and  sent  the  cast  down  the  greased 
lightning  current  that  was  tearing  through  the  sluice. 

I  expected  results,  but  nothing  quite  so  sudden. 
Neither  did  I  know  that  whales  ever  came  so  far  up 
into  fresh-water  streams.  I  know  it  was  a  whale, 
for  nothing  smaller  could  have  given  a  yank  like  that; 
besides,  in  the  glimpse  I  had  of  him  he  looked  exactly 
like  pictures  I  have  seen  of  the  leviathan  who  went 
into  commission  for  three  days  to  furnish  passage  for 
Jonah  and  get  his  name  in  print.  I  found  myself 
suddenly  grabbing  at  things  to  hold  on  to,  among 
them  being  Eddie's  long-handled  net,  which  was  of 
no  value  as  ballast,  but  which  once  in  my  hand  I  could 
not  seem  to  put  down  again,  being  confused  and 
toppling. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  there  was  nothing  satisfactory 
to  get  hold  of  in  that  spot.  I  had  not  considered  the 
necessity  of  firm  anchorage  when  I  selected  the  place, 
but  with  a  three-ton  trout  at  the  end  of  a  long  line, 
in  a  current  going  a  thousand  miles  a  minute,  I  real 
ized  that  it  would  be  well  to  be  lashed  to  something 
permanent.  As  it  was,  with  my  legs  swinging  over' 
that  black  mill-race,  my  left  hand  holding  the  rod, 
and  my  right  clutching  the  landing  net,  I  was  in  no 
position  to  withstand  the  onset  of  a  battle  such  as 
properly  belongs  to  the  North  Pacific  Ocean  where 
they  have  boats  and  harpoons  and  long  coiled  lines 
suitable  to  such  work. 

184 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


Still,  I  might  have  survived — I  might  have  avoided 
complete  disaster,  I  think — if  the  ends  of  those  two 
logs  I  selected  as  a  seat  had  been  as  sound  as  they 
looked.  Of  course  they  were  not.  They,  were  never 
intended  to  stand  any  such  motions  as  I  was  making. 
In  the  brief  moment  allowed  me  for  thought  I  real 
ized  this,  but  it  was  no  matter.  My  conclusions  were 
not  valuable.  I  remember  seeing  the  sluice,  black  and 
swift,  suddenly  rise  to  meet  me,  and  of  dropping 
Eddie's  net  as  I  went  down.  Then  I  have  a  vision  of 
myself  shooting  down  that  race  in  a  wild  toboggan 
ride,  and  a  dim,  splashy  picture  of  being  pitched  out 
on  a  heap  of  brush  and  stones  and  logs  below. 

When  I  got  some  of  the  water  out  of  my  brains 
so  I  could  think  with  them,  I  realized,  first,  that  I 
was  alive,  still  clutching  my  rod  and  that  it  was 
unbroken.  Next,  that  the  whale  and  Eddie's  landing 
net  were  gone.  I  did  not  care  so  especially  much 
about  the  whale.  He  had  annoyed  me.  I  was  will 
ing  to  part  with  him.  Eddie's  net  was  a  different 
matter.  I  never  could  go  back  without  that.  After 
all  his  goodness  to  me  I  had  deceived  him,  slipped 
away  from  him,  taken  his  prized  net — and  lost  it. 
I  had  read  of  such  things;  the  Sunday-school  books 
used  to  be  full  of  similar  incidents.  And  even  if 
Eddie  forgave  me,  as  the  good  boy  in  the  books 
always  did,  my  punishment  was  none  the  less  sure. 
My  fishing  was  ended.  There  was  just  one  net  left. 
Whatever  else  I  had  done,  or  might  do,  I  would  never 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


deprive  Eddie  of  his  last  net.  I  debated  whether  I 
should  go  to  him,  throw  myself  on  his  mercy — ask  his 
forgiveness  and  offer  to  become  his  special  guide  and 
servant  for  the  remainder  of  the  trip — or  commit 
suicide. 

But  presently  I  decided  to  make  one  try,  at  least, 
to  find  the  net.  It  had  not  been  thrown  out  on  the 
drift  with  me,  for  it  was  not  there.  Being  heavy, 
it  had  most  likely  been  carried  along  the  bottom  and 
was  at  present  lodged  in  some  deep  crevice.  It  was 
useless,  of  course;  still,  I  would  try. 

I  was  not  much  afraid  of  the  sluice,  now  that  I 
had  been  introduced  to  it.  I  put  my  rod  in  a  place 
of  safety  and  made  my  way  to  the  upper  end  of  the 
great  trough.  Then  I  let  myself  down  carefully  into 
the  racing  water,  bracing  myself  against  the  sides  and 
feeling  along  the  bottom  with  my  feet.  It  was  uncer 
tain  going,  for  the  heavy  current  tried  hard  to  pull 
me  down.  But  I  had  not  gone  three  steps  till  I  felt 
something.  I  could  not  believe  it  was  the  net.  I 
carefully  steadied  myself  and  reached  one  arm  down 
into  the  black,  tearing  water — down,  down  to  my 
elbow.  Then  I  could  have  whooped  for  joy,  for  it 
was  the  net.  It  had  caught  on  an  old  nail  or  splinter, 
or  something,  and  held  fast. 

Eddie  was  not  at  the  camp,  and  the  guides  were 
busy  getting  wood.  I  was  glad,  for  I  was  wet  and 
bruised  and  generally  disturbed.  When  I  had 
changed  my  things  and  recovered  a  good  deal,  I  sat 

186 


I  remember  seeing  the  sluice,  black  and  swift,  suddenly  rise  to 
meet  me." 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


in  the  shade  and  smoked  and  arranged  my  fly-book 
and  other  paraphernalia,  and  brooded  on  the  frailty 
of  human  nature  and  the  general  perversity  and 
cussedness  of  things  at  large.  I  had  a  confession  all 
prepared  for  Eddie,  long  before  he  arrived.  It  was 
a  good  confession — sufficiently  humble  and  truthful 
without  being  dangerous.  I  had  tested  it  carefully 
and  I  did  not  believe  it  could  result  in  any  disagree 
able  penance  or  disgrace  on  my  part.  It  takes  skill 
to  construct  a  confession  like  that.  But  it  was  wasted. 
When  Eddie  came  in,  at  last,  he  wore  a  humble  hang 
dog  look  of  his  own,  and  I  did  not  see  the  immediate 
need  of  any  confession. 

u  I  didn't  really  intend  to  run  off  from  you,"  he 
began  sheepishly.  "  I  only  wanted  to  see  what  was 
above  the  dam,  and  I  tried  one  or  two  of  the  places 
up  there,  and  they  were  all  so  bully  I  couldn't  get 
away.  Get  your  rod,  I  want  to  take  you  up  there 
before  it  gets  too  late." 

So  the  rascal  had  taken  advantage  of  my  brief 
absence  and  slipped  off  from  me.  In  his  guilty  haste 
he  had  grabbed  the  first  landing  net  he  had  seen, 
never  suspecting  that  I  was  using  the  other.  Clearly 
I  was  the  injured  person.  I  regarded  him  with 
thoughtful  reproach  while  he  begged  me  to  get  my 
rod  and  come.  He  would  take  nothing,  he  said,  but 
a  net,  and  would  guide  for  me.  I  did  not  care  to 
fish  any  more  that  day;  but  I  knew  Eddie — I  knew 
how  his  conscience  galled  him  for  his  sin  and  would 

188 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


never  give  him  peace  until  he  had  made  restitution  in 
full.  I  decided  to  be  generous. 

We  made  our  way  above  the  dam,  around  an  old 
half-drained  pond,  and  through  a  killing  thicket  of 
vines  and  brush  to  a  hidden  pool,  faced  with  slabs 
and  bowlders.  There,  in  that  silent  dim  place  I  had 
the  most  beautiful  hour's  fishing  I  have  ever  known. 
The  trout  were  big,  gamy  fellows  and  Eddie  was 
alert,  obedient  and  respectful.  It  was  not  until  dusk 
that  he  had  paid  his  debt  to  the  last  fish — had  ban 
ished  the  final  twinge  of  remorse. 

Our  day,  however,  was  not  quite  ended.  We  must 
return  to  camp.  The  thicket  had  been  hard  to  con 
quer  by  daylight.  Now  it  was  an  impenetrable  wall 
of  night  and  thorns.  Across  the  brook  looked  more 
open  and  we  decided  to  go  over,  but  when  we  got 
there  it  proved  a  trackless,  swampy  place,  dark  and 
full  of  pitfalls  and  vines.  Eddie,  being  small  and 
woods-broken  could  work  his  way  through  pretty  well, 
but  after  a  few  discouragements  I  decided  to  wade 
down  the  brook  and  through  the  shallow  pond  above 
the  dam.  At  least  it  could  not  be  so  deadly  dark 
there. 

It  was  heart-breaking  business.  I  went  slopping 
and  plunging  among  stumps  and  stones  and  holes.  I 
mistook  logs  for  shadows  and  shadows  for  logs  with 
pathetic  results.  The  pond  that  had  seemed  small 
and.  shallow  by  daylight  was  big  enough  and  deep 
enough  now.  A  good  deal  of  the  way  I  went  on  my 

189 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


hands  and  knees,  but  not  from  choice.  A  nearby  owl 
hooted  at  me.  Bats  darted  back  and  forth  close  to 
my  face.  If  I  had  not  been  a  moral  coward  I  should 
have  called  for  help.  Eddie  had  already  reached 
camp  when  I  arrived  and  had  so  far  recovered  his 
spiritual  status  that  he  jeered  at  my  condition.  I 
resolved  then  not  to  mention  the  sluice  and  the  land 
ing  net  at  all — ever.  I  needed  an  immediate  change 
of  garments,  of  course — the  third  since  morning.* 
It  had  been  a  hard,  eventful  day.  Such  days  make 
camping  remembered — and  worth  while. 

*  I  believe  the  best  authorities  say  that  one  change  is  enough  to  take  on  a 
camping  trip,  and  maybe  it  is  —for  the  best  authorities. 


I9O 


Chapter  Ctoentp=one 

Oh,  it's  well  to  live  high  as  you  can,  my  boy, 

Wherever  you  happen  to  roam, 
But  it's  better  to  have  enough  bacon  and  beans 

To  take  the  poor  wanderers  home. 


Chapter  3Ttoentp=one 

BY  this  time  we  had  reached  trout  diet  per  se. 
I  don't  know  what  per  se  means,  but  I  have 
often  seen  it  used  and  it  seems  to  fit  this  case. 
Of  course  we  were  not  entirely  out  of  other  things. 
We  had  flour  for  flap-jacks,  some  cornmeal  for  mush 
and  Johnnie-cake,  and  enough  bacon  to  impart  flavor 
to  the  fish.  Also,  we  were  not  wholly  without  beans 
— long  may  they  wave — the  woods  without  them 
would  be  a  wilderness  indeed.  But  in  the  matter  of 
meat  diet  it  was  trout  per  se,  as  I  have  said,  unless 
that  means  we  did  not  always  have  them;  in  which 
case  I  will  discard  those  words.  We  did.  We  had 
fried  trout,  broiled  trout,  boiled  trout,  baked  trout, 
trout  on  a  stick  and  trout  chowder.  We  may  have 
had  them  other  ways — I  don't  remember.  I  know 
I  began  to  imagine  that  I  was  sprouting  fins  and  gills, 
and  daily  I  felt  for  the  new  bumps  on  my  head  which 
I  was  certain  must  result  from  this  continuous  absorp 
tion  of  brain  food.  There  were  several  new  bumps, 
but  when  I  called  Eddie's  attention  to  them  he  said 
they  were  merely  the  result  of  butting  my  head  so 
frequently  against  logs  and  stumps  and  other  por 
tions  of  the  scenery.  Then  he  treated  them  with  lini 
ment  and  new  skin. 

193 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


Speaking  of  food,  I  believe  I  have  not  mentioned 
the  beefsteak  which  we  brought  with  us  into  the 
woods.  It  was  Eddie's  idea,  and  he  was  its  self- 
appointed  guardian  and  protector.  That  was  proper, 
only  I  think  he  protected  it  too  long.  It  was  a  nice 
sirloin  when  we  started — thick  and  juicy  and  of  a 
deep  rich  tone.  Eddie  said  a  little  age  would  improve 
it,  and  I  suppose  he  was  right — he  most  always  is. 
He  said  we  would  appreciate  it  more,  too,  a  little 
later,  which  seemed  a  sound  doctrine. 

Yet,  somehow,  that  steak  was  an  irritation.  It  is 
no  easy  matter  to  adjust  the  proper  age  of  a  steak  to 
the  precise  moment  of  keen  and  general  appreciation. 
We  discussed  the  matter  a  good  deal,  and  each  time 
the  steak  was  produced  as  a  sort  of  Exhibit  A,  and 
on  each  occasion  Eddie  decided  that  the  time  was  not 
ripe — that  another  day  would  add  to  its  food  value. 
I  may  say  that  I  had  no  special  appetite  for  steak, 
not  yet,  but  I  did  not  want  to  see  it  carried  off  by  wild 
beasts,  or  offered  at  last  on  a  falling  market. 

Besides,  the  thing  was  an  annoyance  as  baggage. 
I  don't  know  where  we  carried  it  at  first,  but  I  began 
to  come  upon  it  in  unexpected  places.  If  I  picked 
up  a  yielding  looking  package,  expecting  to  find  a 
dry  undergarment,  or  some  other  nice  surprise,  it 
turned  out  to  be  that  steak.  If  I  reached  down  into 
one  of  the  pack  baskets  for  a  piece  of  Eddie's  choco 
late,  or  some  of  his  tobacco — for  anything,  in  fact — I 
would  usually  get  hold  of  a  curious  feeling  substance 

194 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


and  bring  up  that  steak.  I  began  to  recognize  its 
texture  at  last,  and  to  avoid  it.  Eventually  I  ban 
ished  it  from  the  baskets  altogether.  Then  Eddie 
took  to  hanging  it  on  a  limb  near  the  camp,  and  if 
a  shower  came  up  suddenly  he  couldn't  rest — he 
must  make  a  wild  rush  and  take  in  that  steak.  I 
refused  at  last  to  let  him  bring  it  into  the  tent,  or  to 
let  him  hang  it  on  a  nearby  limb.  But  this  made 
trouble,  for  when  he  hung  it  farther  away  he  some 
times  forgot  it,  and  twice  we  had  to  paddle  back  a 
mile  or  so  to  get  that  steak.  Also,  sometimes,  it  got 
wet,  which  was  not  good  for  its  flavor,  he  said;  cer 
tainly  not  for  its  appearance. 

In  fact,  age  told  on  that  steak.  It  no  longer  had 
the  deep  rich  glow  of  youth.  It  had  a  weather-beaten, 
discouraged  look,  and  I  wondered  how  Eddie  could 
contemplate  it  in  that  fond  way.  It  seemed  to  me  that 
if  the  time  wasn't  ripe  the  steak  was,  and  that  some 
thing  ought  to  be  done  about  a  thing  like  that.  My 
suggestions  did  not  please  Eddie. 

I  do  not  remember  now  just  when  we  did  at  last 
cook  that  steak.  I  prefer  to  forget  it.  Neither  do  I 
know  what  Eddie  did  with  his  piece.  I  buried  mine. 

Eddie  redeemed  himself  later — that  is  to  say,  he 
produced  something  I  could  eat.  He  got  up  early 
for  the  purpose.  When  I  awoke,  a  savory  smell 
was  coming  in  the  tent.  Eddie  was  squatted  by  the 
fire,  stirring  something  in  a  long-handled  frying  pan. 
Neither  he  nor  the  guides  were  communicative  as  to 

195 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


its  nature,  but  it  was  good,  and  I  hoped  we  would 
have  it  often.  Then  they  told  me  what  it  was.  It 
was  a  preparation  with  cream  (condensed)  of  the 
despised  canned  salmon  which  I  had  denounced 
earlier  in  the  trip  as  an  insult  to  live,  speckled  trout. 
You  see  how  one's  point  of  view  may  alter.  I  said 
I  was  sorry  now  we  hadn't  brought  some  dried  her 
ring.  The  others  thought  it  a  joke,  but  I  was  per 
fectly  serious. 

In  fact,  provisioning  for  a  camping  trip  is  a  seri 
ous  matter.  Where  a  canoe  must  carry  a  man  and 
guide,  with  traps  and  paraphernalia,  and  provisions 
for  a  three-weeks'  trip,  the  problem  of  condensation 
in  the  matter  of  space  and  weight,  with  amplitude  in 
the  matter  of  quantity,  affords  study  for  a  careful 
mind.  We  started  out  with  a  lot  of  can  and  bottle 
goods,  which  means  a  good  deal  of  water  and  glass 
and  tin,  all  of  which  are  heavy  and  take  up  room.  I 
don't  think  ours  was  the  best  way.  The  things  were 
good — too  good  to  last — but  dried  fruits — apricots, 
prunes  and  the  like — would  have  been  nearly  as  good, 
and  less  burdensome.  Indeed  by  the  end  of  the 
second  week  I  would  have  given  five  cents  apiece  for 
a  few  dried  prunes,  while  even  dried  apples,  which" 
I  had  learned  to  hate  in  childhood,  proved  a  gaudy 
luxury.  Canned  beans,  too,  I  consider  a  mistake. 
You  can't  take  enough  of  them  in  that  form.  No  two 
canoes  can  safely  carry  enough  canned  beans  to  last 
two  fishermen  and  two  Nova  Scotia  guides  for  three 

196 


"  When  I  awoke,  a  savory  smell  was  corning  in  the  tent." 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


weeks.  As  for  jam  and  the  like,  why  it  would  take 
one  canoe  to  carry  enough  marmalade  to  supply  Del 
the  Stout  alone.  If  there  is  any  such  thing  as  a 
marmalade  cure,  I  hope  Del  will  take  it  before  I  am 
ready  to  go  into  the  woods  again.  Otherwise  I  shall 
tow  an  extra  canoe  or  a  marmalade  factory. 

As  I  have  said,  dried  things  are  better;  fruits, 
beans,  rice,  beef,  bacon — maple  sugar  (for  sirup), 
cornmeal  and  prepared  flour.  If  you  want  to  start 
with  a  few  extras  in  the  way  of  canned  stuff,  do  it, 
but  be  sure  you  have  plenty  of  the  staples  mentioned. 
You  will  have  enough  water  and  tin  and  glass  to  carry 
with  your  condensed  milk,  your  vinegar,  a  few  pickles, 
and  such  other  bottle  refreshments  as  your  tastes  and 
morals  will  permit.  Take  all  the  variety  you  can  in 
the  way  of  dried  staples — be  sure  they  are  staples — 
but  cut  close  on  your  bulky  tinned  supplies.  It  is 
better  to  be  sure  of  enough  Johnnie-cake  and  bacon 
and  beans  during  the  last  week  out  than  to  feast  on 
plum-pudding  and  California  pears  the  first. 


198 


Chapter  Ctoentp=ttoo 

Oh,  it's  up  and  down  the  island's  reach, 
Through  thicket  and  gorge  and  fen, 

With  never  a  rest  in  their  fevered  quest, 
Hurry  the  hunter  men. 


Chapter 

I  WOULD  gladly  have  lingered  at  Tobeatic  Dam. 
It  was  an  ideal  place,  wholly  remote  from 
everything  human — a  haunt  of  wonderful 
trout,  peaceable  porcupines  and  tame  birds.  The 
birds  used  to  come  around  the  tent  to  look  us  over 
and  ask  questions,  and  to  tell  us  a  lot  about  what  was 
going  on  in  the  back  settlements — those  mysterious 
dim  places  where  bird  and  beast  still  dwell  together 
as  in  the  ancient  days,  their  round  of  affairs  and  gossip 
undisturbed.  I  wanted  to  rest  there,  and  to  heal  up  a 
little  before  resuming  the  unknown  way. 

But  Eddie  was  ruthless — there  were  more  worlds 
to  conquer.  The  spirit  of  some  old  ancestor  who 
probably  set  out  to  discover  the  Northwest  Passage 
was  upon  him.  Lower  Tobeatic  Lake  was  but  a  little 
way  above.  We  pushed  through  to  it  without  much 
delay.  It  was  an  extensive  piece  of  water,  full  of 
islands,  lonely  rocks  and  calling  gulls,  who  come  to 
this  inland  isolation  to  rear  their  young. 

The  morning  was  clear  and  breezy  and  we  set  off 
up  the  lake  in  the  canoes,  Eddie,  as  usual,  a  good  way 
in  advance.  He  called  back  to  us  now  and  then  that 
this  was  great  moose  country,  and  to  keep  a  sharp 

201 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


lookout  as  we  passed  the  islands.  I  did  not  wish  to 
see  moose.  The  expedition  had  already  acquitted 
itself  in  that  direction,  but  Eddie's  voice  was  eager, 
even  authoritative,  so  we  went  in  close  and  pointed 
at  signs  and  whispered  in  the  usual  way.  I  realized 
that  Eddie  had  not  given  up  the  calf  moose  idea  and 
was  still  anxious  to  shine  with  those  British  Museum 
people.  It  seemed  to  me  that  such  ambitions  were 
not  laudable.  I  considered  them  a  distinct  mar  to  a 
character  which  was  otherwise  almost  perfect.  It  was 
at  such  times  that  my  inclination  to  drown  or  poison 
Eddie  was  stronger  than  usual. 

He  had  been  behind  an  island  a  good  while  when 
we  thought  we  heard  a  shot.  Presently  we  heard  it 
again,  and  were  sure.  Del  was  instantly  all  ablaze. 
Two  shots  had  been  the  signal  for  moose. 

We  went  around  there.  I  suppose  we  hurried.  I 
know  it  was  billowy  off  the  point  and  we  shipped  water 
and  nearly  swamped  as  we  rounded.  Behind  the 
island,  close  in,  lay  the  other  canoe,  Eddie  waving  to 
us  excitedly  as  we  came  up. 

"  Two  calf  meese!"  he  called  ("meese"  being 
Eddie's  plural  of  moose — everybody  knows  that 
"  mooses  "  is  the  word) .  "  Little  helpless  fellows  not 
more  than  a  day  or  two  old.  They're  too  young  to 
swim  of  course,  so  they  can't  get  off  the  island. 
We've  got  'em,  sure !  " 

"  Did  you  hit  either  of  them?  "  I  asked  anxiously. 

"No,  of  course  not!  I  only  fired  for  a  signal, 
202 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


They  are  wholly  at  our  mercy.  They  were  right 
here  just  a  moment  ago.  The  mother  ran,  and  they 
hardly  knew  which  way  to  turn.  We  can  take  them 
alive." 

"  But,  Eddie,"  I  began,  "  what  will  you  do  with 
them?  They'll  have  to  be  fed  if  we  keep  them,  and 
will  probably  want  to  occupy  the  tents,  and  we'll  have 
to  take  them  in  the  canoes  when  we  move." 

He  was  ready  for  this  objection. 

"  I've  been  thinking,"  he  said  with  decision. 
"  Dell  and  Charlie  can  take  one  of  the  canoes,  with 
the  calves  in  it,  and  make  straight  for  Milford  by  the 
shortest  cut.  While  they're  gone  we'll  be  exploring 
the  upper  lake." 

This  was  a  brief,  definite  plan,  but  it  did  not  appeal 
to  me.  In  the  first  place,  I  did  not  wish  to  capture 
those  little  mooses.  Then,  too,  I  foresaw  that  dur 
ing  the  considerable  period  which  must  elapse  before 
the  guides  returned,  somebody  would  have  to  cook 
and  wash  dishes  and  perform  other  menial  camp 
labor.  I  suspected  Eddie  might  get  tired  of  doing 
guide  work  as  a  daily  occupation.  Also,  I  was  sorry 
for  Charlie  and  Del.  I  had  a  mental  picture  of  them 
paddling  for  dear  life  up  the  Liverpool  River  with 
two  calf  mooses  galloping  up  and  down  the  canoe, 
bleating  wildly,  pausing  now  and  then  to  lap  the 
faces  of  the  friendly  guides  and  perhaps  to  bite  off 
an  ear  or  some  other  handy  feature.  Even  the  wild 
animals  would  form  along  the  river  bank  to  view  a 

203 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


spectacle  like  that,  and  I  imagined  the  arrival  at  the 
hotel  would  be  something  particularly  showy.  I  men 
tioned  these  things  and  I  saw  that  for  once  the  guides 
were  with  me.  They  did  not  warm  to  the  idea  of  that 
trip  up  the  Liverpool  and  the  gaudy  homecoming. 
Eddie  was  only  for  a  moment  checked. 

"  Well,  then,"  he  said,  "  we'll  kill  and  skin  them. 
We  can  carry  the  skins." 

This  was  no  better.  I  did  not  want  those  little 
mooses  slaughtered,  and  said  so.  But  Eddie  was 
roused  now,  and  withered  me  with  judicial  severity. 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  and  his  spectacles  glared 
fiercely.  "  I'm  here  as  a  representative  of  the  British 
Museum,  in  the  cause  of  science,  not  to  discuss  the 
protection  of  dumb  creatures.  That's  another 
society." 

I  submitted  then,  of  course.  I  always  do  when 
Eddie  asserts  his  official  capacity  like  that.  The 
authority  of  the  British  Museum  is  not  to  be  lightly 
tampered  with.  So  far  as  I  knew  he  could  have  me 
jailed  for  contempt.  We  shoved  our  canoes  in  shore 
and  disembarked.  Eddie  turned  back. 

"  We  must  take  something  to  tie  their  hind  legs," 
he  said,  and  fished  out  a  strap  for  that  purpose.  The 
hope  came  to  me  that  perhaps,  after  all,  he  might 
not  need  the  strap,  but  I  was  afraid  to  mention  it. 

I  confess  I  was  unhappy.  I  imagined  a  pathetic 
picture  of  a  little  innocent  creature  turning  its  plead 
ing  eyes  up  to  the  captor  who  with  keen  sheath-knife 

204 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


would  let  slip  the  crimson  tide.  I  had  no  wish  to  go 
racing  through  the  brush  after  those  timid  victims. 

I  did,  however.  The  island  was  long  and  narrow. 
We  scattered  out  across  it  in  a  thin  line  of  battle, 
and  starting  at  one  end  swept  down  the  length  of  it 
with  a  conquering  front.  That  sounds  well,  but  it 
fails  to  express  what  we  did.  We  did  not  sweep, 
and  we  did  not  have  any  front  to  speak  of.  The 
place  was  a  perfect  tangle  and  chaos  of  logs,  bushes, 
vines,  pits,  ledges  and  fallen  trees.  To  beat  up  that 
covert  was  a  hot,  scratchy,  discouraging  job,  attended 
with  frequent  escapes  from  accident  and  damage.  I 
was  satisfied  I  had  the  worst  place  in  the  line,  for  I 
couldn't  keep  up  with  the  others,  and  I  tried  harder 
to  do  that  than  I  did  to  find  the  little  mooses.  I  didn't 
get  sight  of  the  others  after  we  started.  Neither  did 
I  catch  a  glimpse  of  those  little  day-old  calves,  or  of 
anything  else  except  a  snak;e,  which  I  came  upon 
rather  suddenly  when  I  was  down  on  my  hands  and 
knees,  creeping  under  a  fallen  tree.  I  do  not  like  to 
come  upon  snakes  in  that  manner.  I  do  not  care  to 
view  them  even  behind  glass  in  a  museum.  An  earth 
quake  might  strike  that  museum  and  break  the  glass 
and  it  might  not  be  easy  to  get  away.  I  wish  Eddie 
had  been  collecting  snake  skins  for  his  museum.  I 
would  have  been  willing  for  him  to  skin  that  one 
alive. 

I  staggered  out  to  the  other  end  of  the  island,  at 
last,  with  only  a  flickering  remnant  of  life  left  in  me, 

205 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


I  thought  Eddie  would  be  grateful  for  all  my  efforts 
when  I  was  not  in  full  sympathy  with  the  undertaking ; 
but  he  wasn't.  He  said  that  by  not  keeping  up  with 
the  line  I  had  let  the  little  mooses  slip  by,  and  that  we 
would  have  to  make  the  drive  again.  I  said  he  might 
have  my  route  and  I  would  take  another.  It  was  a 
mistake,  though.  I  couldn't  seem  to  pick  a  better 
one.  When  we  had  chased  up  and  down  that  disor 
dered  island — that  dumping  ground  of  nature — for 
the  third  time;  when  I  had  fallen  over  every  log 
and  stone,  and  into  every  hole  on  it,  and  had  scraped 
myself  in  every  brush-heap,  and  not  one  of  us  had 
caught  even  an  imaginary  glimpse  of  those  little,  help 
less,  day-old  meese,  or  mooses,  or  mice — for  they 
were  harder  to  find  than  mice — we  staggered  out, 
limp  and  sore,  silently  got  into  our  canoes  and  drifted 
away.  Nobody  spoke  for  quite  a  while.  Nobody 
had  anything  to  say.  Then  Charlie  murmured 
reflectively,  as  if  thinking  aloud: 

"  Little  helpless  fellows — not  more  than  a  day  or 
two  old " 

And  Del  added — also  talking  to  himself: 

u  Too  young  to  swim,  of  course — wholly  at  our 
mercy."  Then,  a  moment  later,  "  It's  a  good  thing 
we  took  that  strap  to  tie  their  hind  legs." 

Eddie  said  nothing  at  all,  and  I  was  afraid  to. 
Still,  I  was  glad  that  my  vision  of  the  little  creatures 
pleading  for  their  lives  hadn't  been  realized,  or  that 
other  one  of  Del  and  Charlie  paddling  for  dear  life 

206 


"  I  do  not  like  to  come  upon  snakes  in  that  manner/ 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


up  the  Liverpool,  with  those  little  mooses  bleating 
and  scampering  up  and  down  the  canoe. 

What  really  became  of  those  calves  remains  a  mys 
tery.  Nature  teaches  her  wild  children  many  useful 
things.  Their  first  indrawn  breath  is  laden  with 
knowledge.  Perhaps  those  wise  little  animals  laughed 
at  us  from  some  snug  hiding.  Perhaps  they  could 
swim,  after  all,  and  followed  their  mother  across  the 
island,  and  so  away.  Whatever  they  did,  I  am  glad, 
even  if  the  museum  people  have  me  arrested  for  it. 


208 


Chapter 

When  the  utmost  bound  of  the  trail  is  found — 

The  last  and  loneliest  lair — 
The  hordes  of  the  forest  shall  gather  round 

To  bid  you  a  welcome  there. 


Chapter 

I  DO  not  know  what  lies  above  the  Tobeatic 
lakes,  but  the  strip  of  country  between  is  the 
true  wilderness.  It  is  a  succession  of  swamps 
and  spruce  thickets — ideal  country  for  a  moose  farm 
or  a  mosquito  hatchery,  or  for  general  exploration, 
but  no  sort  of  a  place  for  a  Sunday-school  picnic. 
Neither  is  it  a  good  place  to  fish.  The  little  brook 
between  the  lakes  runs  along  like  a  chain  pump  and 
contains  about  as  many  trout.  There  are  one  or  two 
pretty  good  pools,  but  the  effort  to  reach  them  is  too 
costly. 

We  made  camp  in  as  dry  a  place  as  we  could  find, 
but  we  couldn't  find  a  place  as  big  as  the  tent  that 
didn't  have  a  spring  or  a  water  hole.  In  fact,  the 
ground  was  a  mass  of  roots,  great  and  small,  with 
water  everywhere  between.  A  spring  actually  bub 
bled  up  between  our  beds,  and  when  one  went  outside 
at  night  it  was  a  mercy  if  he  did  not  go  plunging  into 
some  sort  of  a  cold,  wet  surprise,  with  disastrous  and 
profane  results.  Being  the  worst  camp  and  the  worst 
country  and  the  poorest  fishing  we  had  found,  we 
remained  there  two  days.  But  this  was  as  it  should 
be.  We  were  not  fishermen  now,  but  explorers;  and 
explorers,  Eddie  said,  always  court  hardships,  and 
pitch  their  camps  in  the  midst  of  dangers. 

211 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


Immediately  after  our  arrival,  Eddie  and  I  took 
one  side  of  the  brook  and  the  guides  the  other,  and  we 
set  out  to  discover  things,  chiefly  the  upper  lake.  Of 
course  we  would  pick  the  hardest  side.  We  could  be 
depended  on  to  do  that.  The  brook  made  a  long 
bend,  and  the  guides,  who  were  on  the  short  side, 
found  fairly  easy  going.  Eddie  and  I,  almost  imme 
diately,  were  floundering  in  a  thick  miry  swamp, 
where  it  was  hot  and  breezeless,  and  where  the  midges, 
mooseflies  and  mosquitoes  gave  us  a  grand  welcome. 
I  never  saw  anybody  so  glad  to  be  discovered  as 
those  mooseflies.  They  were  as  excited  as  if  we  were 
long  lost  relatives  who  had  suddenly  turned  up  with 
a  fortune.  They  swarmed  about  us  and  clung  to  us 
and  tapped  us  in  any  convenient  place.  I  did  not 
blame  them,  of  course.  Moose  diet,  year  in  and  year 
out,  would  make  them  welcome  anything  by  way  of  a 
change.  And  what  droves  of  moose  there  must  be  in 
that  swamp  to  support  such  a  muster  of  flies!  Cer 
tainly  this  was  .the  very  heart  of  the  moose  domain. 

Perhaps  the  reader  who  has  never  seen  a  moosefly 
may  not  appreciate  the  amplitude  and  vigor  of  our 
welcome.  The  moosefly  is  a  lusty  fellow  with  mot 
tled  wings.  I  believe  he  is  sometimes  called  the  deer- 
fly,  though  as  the  moose  is  bigger  and  more  savage 
than  the  deer,  it  is  my  opinion  that  the  moosefly  is 
bigger  and  more  savage  than  any  fly  that  bites  the 
deer.  I  don't  think  the  deer  could  survive  him.  He 
is  about  the  size  of  the  green-headed  horsefly,  but 

212 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


of  more  athletic  build.  He  describes  rapid  and  eager 
circles  about  one's  head,  whizzing  meanwhile  in  a 
manner  which  some  may  like,  but  which  I  could  not 
learn  to  enjoy.  His  family  is  large  and  he  has  many 
friends.  He  brings  them  all  along  to  greet  you, 
and  they  all  whiz  and  describe  circles  at  once,  and 
with  every  circle  or  two  he  makes  a  dip  and  swipes 
up  about  a  gill  of  your  lifeblood  and  guzzles  it  down, 
and  goes  right  on  whizzing  and  circling  until  he  picks 
out  a  place  for  the  next  dip.  Unlike  the  mosquito, 
the  moosefly  does  not  need  to  light  cautiously  and 
patiently  sink  a  well  until  he  strikes  a  paying  vein. 
His  practice  on  the  moose  has  fitted  him  for  speedier 
methods.  The  bill  with  which  he  is  accustomed  to 
bore  through  a  tough  moosehide  in  a  second  or  two 
will  penetrate  a  man  in  the  briefest  fraction  of  the 
time. 

We  got  out  of  that  swamp  with  no  unnecessary 
delay  and  made  for  a  spruce  thicket.  Ordinarily  one 
does  not  welcome  a  spruce  thicket,  for  it  resembles 
a  tangle  of  barbed  wires.  But  it  was  a  boon  now. 
We  couldn't  scratch  all  the  places  at  once  and  the 
spruce  thicket  would  help.  We  plunged  into  it  and 
let  it  dig,  and  scrape,  and  protect  us  from  those  whiz 
zing,  circling  blood-gluttons  of  the  swamp.  Yet  it 
was  cruel  going.  I  have  never  seen  such  murderous 
brush.  I  was  already  decorated  with  certain  areas  of 
"  New  Skin,"  but  I  knew  that  after  this  I  should  need 
a  whole  one.  Having  our  rods  and  guns  made  it 

213 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


harder.  In  places  we  were  obliged  to  lie  perfectly 
flat  to  worm  and  wriggle  through.  And  the  heat 
was  intense  and  our  thirst  a  torture.  Yet  in  the 
end  it  was  worth  while  and  the  payment  was  not  long 
delayed.  Just  beyond  the  spruce  thicket  ran  a  little 
spring  rivulet,  cold  as  ice.  Lying  on  its  ferny  margin 
we  drank  and  drank,  and  the  gods  themselves  cannot 
create  a  more  exquisite  joy  than  that.  We  followed 
the  rivulet  to  where  it  fed  the  brook,  a  little  way 
below.  There  we  found  a  good-sized  pool,  and  trout. 
Also  a  cool  breeze  and  a  huge  bowlder — complete 
luxury.  We  rested  on  the  big  stone — I  mean  I  did — 
and  fished,  while  Eddie  was  trying  to  find  the  way 
out.  I  said  I  would  wait  there  until  a  relief  party 
arrived.  It  was  no  use.  Eddie  threatened  to  leave 
me  at  last  if  I  didn't  come  on,  and  I  had  no  intention 
of  being  left  alone  in  that  forgotten  place. 

We  struggled  on.  Finally  near  sunset  of  that  long, 
hard  June  day,  we  passed  out  of  the  thicket  tangle, 
ascended  a  slope  and  found  ourselves  in  an  open  grove 
of  whispering  pines  that  through  all  the  years  had 
somehow  escaped  the  conflagration  and  the  ax.  Tall 
colonnades  they  formed — a  sort  of  Grove  of  Dodona 
which  because  of  some  oracle,  perhaps,  the  gods  had 
spared  and  the  conquering  vandals  had  not  swept 
away.  From  the  top  of  the  knoll  we  caught  a  glimpse 
of  water  through  the  trees,  and  presently  stood  on  the 
shore  of  Little  Tobeatic  Lake. 

So  it  was  we  reached  the  end  of  our  quest — the 
214 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


farthest  point  in  the  unknown.  I  hardly  know  what 
I  had  expected :  trout  of  a  new  species  and  of  gigantic 
size,  perhaps,  or  a  strange  race  of  men.  Whatever  it 
was,  I  believe  I  felt  a  bit  disappointed. 

I  believe  I  did  not  consider  it  much  of  a  discovery. 
It  was  a  good  deal  like  other  Nova  Scotia  lakes, 
except  that  it  appeared  to  be  in  two  sections  and 
pretty  big  for  its  name.  But  Eddie  was  rejoiced 
over  our  feat.  The  mooseflies  and  spruce  thickets 
and  the  miry  swamps  we  had  passed,  for  him  only 
added  relish  to  this  moment  of  supreme  triumph. 
Eddie  would  never  be  the  man  to  go  to  the  Arctics 
in  an  automobile  or  an  airship.  That  would  be  too 
easy.  He  would  insist  on  more  embroideries.  He 
would  demand  all  the  combined  hardships  of  the 
previous  expeditions.  I  am  at  present  planning  a  trip 
to  the  South  Pole,  but  I  shall  leave  Eddie  at  home. 
And  perhaps  I  shall  also  be  disappointed  when  I  get 
to  the  South  Pole  and  find  it  only  a  rock  in  a  snow 
drift. 

We  crossed  the  brook  and  returned  to  camp  the 
short  way.  We  differed  a  good  deal  as  to  the  direc 
tion,  and  separated  once  or  twice.  We  got  lost  at 
last,  for  the  way  was  so  short  and  easy  that  we  were 
below  the  camp  before  we  knew  it.  When  at  last  we 
heard  the  guides  calling  (they  had  long  since 
returned)  we  came  in,  blaming  each  other  for  several 
things  and  were  scarcely  on  speaking  terms  for  as 
much  as  five  minutes.  It  was  lucky  that  Charles  found 

215 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


a  bottle  of  Jamaica  rum  and  a  little  pot  of  honey  just 
then.  A  mixture  of  rum  and  honey  will  allay  irrita 
tion  due  to  moosefly  and  mosquito  bites,  and  to  a 
variety  of  other  causes  if  faithfully  applied. 

The  matter  of  mosquitoes  was  really  serious  that 
night.  We  kept  up  several  smudge  fires  and  sat 
among  them  and  smoked  ourselves  like  herring.  Even 
then  we  were  not  immune.  When  it  came  time  for 
bed  we  brushed  the  inside  of  the  tent  and  set  our 
pipes  going.  Then  Eddie  wanted  to  read,  as  was  his 
custom.  I  objected.  I  said  that  to  light  a  candle 
would  be  to  invite  all  those  mosquitoes  back.  He 
pleaded,  but  for  once  I  was  firm.  He  offered  me 
some  of  his  best  things,  but  I  refused  to  sell  my  blood 
in  that  way.  Finally  he  declared  he  had  a  spread 
of  mosquito  net  and  would  put  it  over  the  door  and 
every  possible  opening  if  I  would  let  him  read.  I 
said  he  might  put  up  the  netting  and  if  I  approved 
the  job  I  would  then  consider  the  matter.'  He  got  out 
the  net — a  nice  new  piece — and  began  to  put  it  up. 

It  was  a  tedious  job,  arranging  that  net  and  fasten 
ing  it  properly  by  the  flickering  firelight  so  that  it 
covered  every  crack  and  crevice.  When  he  pulled 
it  down  in  one  place  it  left  an  opening  in  another  and 
had  to  be  poked  and  pinned  and  stuffed  in  and  patted 
down  a  great  many  times.  From  my  place  inside  the 
tent  I  could  see  his  nimble  shadow  on  the  canvas  like 
some  big  insect,  bobbing  and  flitting  up  and  down 
and  from  side  to  side.  It  reminded  me  of  a  per- 

216 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


sistent  moth,  dipping  and  dodging  about  a  screen.  I 
drowsily  wondered  if  he  would  ever  get  it  fixed,  and 
if  he  wasn't  getting  hot  and  tired,  for  it  was  a  still, 
sticky  night.  Yet  I  suppose  I  did  not  realize  how 
hot  and  tired  one  might  get  on  such  a  night,  especially 
after  a  hard  day.  When  he  ceased  his  lightsome 
movements  at  last  and  crept  as  carefully  as  a  worm 
under  the  net,  I  expected  him  to  light  the  candle 
lamp  and  read.  He  did  not  do  so.  He  gave  one 
long  sighing  groan  of  utter  exhaustion,  dropped  down 
on  his  bed  without  removing  his  clothes  and  never 
stirred  again  until  morning. 

The  net  was  a  great  success.    Only  two  mosquitoes 
got  in  and  they  bit  Eddie. 


217 


Chapter  ttoentp=four 

Apollo  has  tuned  his  lute  again, 

And  the  pipes  of  Pan  are  neary 
For  the  gods  that  fled  from  the  groves  of  men 

Gather  unheeded  here. 


Chapter  Ctoentp=four 

IT  was  by  no  means  an  unpleasant  camp,  first  and 
last.  It  was  our  "  Farthest  North  "  for  one 
thing,  our  deepest  point  in  the  wilderness.  It 
would  require  as  much  as  three  or  four  days'  travel, 
even  by  the  quickest  and  most  direct  route  to  reach 
any  human  habitation,  and  in  this  thought  there  was 
charm.  It  was  a  curious  place,  too,  among  those 
roots  and  springs,  and  the  brook  there  formed  a  rare 
pool  for  bathing.  While  the  others  were  still  asleep 
I  slipped  down  there  for  my  morning  dip.  It  was 
early,  but  in  that  latitude  and  season  the  sun  had 
already  risen  and  filtered  in  through  the  still  tree- 
tops.  Lying  back  in  that  natural  basin  with  the  cool, 
fresh  water  slipping  over  and  about  one,  and  all  the 
world  afar  off  and  unreal,  was  to  know  the  joy  of  the 
dim,  forgotten  days  when  nymphs  and  dryads  sported 
in  hidden  pools  or  tripped  to  the  pipes  of  Pan.  Hem 
lock  and  maple  boughs  lacing  above,  with  blue  sky 
between — a  hermit  thrush  singing :  such  a  pool  Diana 
might  have  found,  shut  away  in  some  remote  depths 
of  Arcady.  I  should  not  have  been  much  surprised 
to  have  heard  the  bay  of  her  hounds  in  that  still  early 
morning,  and  to  have  seen  her  and  her  train  suddenly 
appear — pursuing  a  moose,  maybe,  or  merely  coming 

221 


The   Tent    'Dwellers 


down  for  a  morning  swim.  Of  course  I  should  have 
secluded  myself  had  I  heard  them  coming.  I  am 
naturally  a  modest  person.  Besides,  I  gather  from 
the  pictures  that  Diana  is  likely  to  be  dangerous  when 
she  is  in  her  moods.  Eddie  bathed,  too,  later,  but  the 
spell  was  gone  then.  Diana  was  far  away,  the  still 
ness  and  sun-glint  were  no  more  in  the  treetops,  the 
hermit  thrush  was  no  longer  in  the  neighborhood. 
Eddie  grumbled  that  the  water  was  chilly  and  that 
the  stones  hurt  his  feet.  An  hour,  sometimes — a 
moment,  even — makes  all  the  difference  between 
romance  and  reality.  Finally,  even  the  guides  bathed ! 
We  let  off  fireworks  in  celebration ! 

We  carried  the  canoes  to  the  lake  that  morning  and 
explored  it,  but  there  was  not  much  to  see.  The  lake 
had  no  inlet  that  we  could  find,  and  Eddie  and  I  lost 
a  dollar  apiece  with  the  guides  betting  on  the  shape 
of  it,  our  idea  being  based  upon  the  glimpse  of  the 
evening  before.  I  don't  care  much  for  lakes  that 
change  their  shape  like  that,  and  even  Eddie  seemed 
willing  to  abandon  this  unprofitable  region.  I  sus 
pected,  however,  that  his  willingness  to  take  the  back 
track  was  mainly  due  to  the  hope  of  getting  another 
try  at  the  little  mooses,  but  I  resolved  to  indulge 
myself  no  further  in  any  such  pastime. 

It  was  hard  to  drag  Eddie  by  those  islands.  He 
wanted  to  cruise  around  every  one  of  them  and  to  go 
ashore  and  prospect  among  the  debris.  He  vowed 
at  last  that  he  would  come  back  with  Charles  from  our 

222 


jft 

.^f'ffr         "ysZ&C        -T  .* -_^fZ" 
~.  i  SfcjStL.  V  ^^-.^ L.  -rr^:"         - 


We  went  down  that  long,  lovely  lake  in  a  luxury  of  idle  bliss." 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


next  camp  and  explore  on  his  own  account.  Then, 
there  being  a  fine  breeze  directly  behind  us,  he  opened 
out  a  big  umbrella  which  he  had  brought  along  for 
just  such  a  time,  we  hitched  our  canoe  on  behind,  and 
with  that  bellying  black  sail  on  the  forward  bow,  went 
down  that  long,  lovely  lake  in  a  luxury  of  idle  bliss. 

We  camped  at  our  old  place  by  the  falls  and  next 
morning  Eddie  did  in  fact  return  to  have  another  go 
at  the  calves.  Del  was  willing  to  stay  at  the  camp, 
and  I  said  I  would  have  a  quiet  day's  fishing  nearby. 
It  proved  an  unusual  day's  fishing  for  those  waters. 
White  perch  are  not  plentiful  there,  but  for  some 
reason  a  school  of  them  had  collected  just  by  our 
camp.  I  discovered  them  by  accident  and  then  gave 
up  everything  else  to  get  as  many  of  them  as  possible, 
for  they  were  a  desirable  change  from  trout,  and 
eagerly  welcomed.  I  fished  for  them  by  spells  all 
day.  Del  and  I  had  them  for  luncheon  and  we  saved 
a  great  pan  full  to  be  ready  for  supper,  when  the 
others  should  return. 

It  was  dusk  when  the  other  canoe  came  in.  Our 
companions  were  very  tired,  also  wet,  for  it  had  been 
a  misty  day,  with  showers.  Eddie  was  a  bit  cross, 
too.  They  had  seen  some  calves,  he  said,  but  could 
not  get  them.  His  guide  agreed  with  this  statement, 
but  when  questioned  separately  their  statements  varied 
somewhat  as  to  the  reasons  of  failure.  It  did  not 
matter.  Eddie  was  discouraged  in  the  calf  moose 
project,  I  could  see  that.  Presently  I  began  boasting 

224 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


of  the  big  day's  sport  I  had  enjoyed,  and  then  to  show 
off  I  said,  "  This  is  how  I  did  it." 

Eddie  was  washing  his  hands  in  my  perch  pool  and 
I  had  no  idea  of  getting  anything — one  is  not  likely 
to  when  he  wishes  to  exhibit  himself — but  I  made  a 
cast  with  the  light  tackle  with  two  flies  on  it  and 
immediately  had  my  hands  full.  For  once,  I  did 
actually  show  off  when  I  undertook  to  do  it.  I  think 
the  only  two  big  perch  in  that  pool  seized  those  flies, 
and  for  the  next  five  or  ten  minutes  they  were  making 
my  reel  sing  and  giving  me  such  sport  as  only  two 
big  white  perch  on  a  light  tackle  can.  I  brought 
them  to  the  net  at  last  and  Eddie  looked  on  with 
hungry,  envious  eyes. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  you've  been  taking  those 
things  all  day,"  he  said. 

"  All  day,  more  or  less.  I  merely  gave  this  little 
exhibition  to  wind  up  on." 

But  of  course  I  had  to  show  him  the  size  of  the 
others,  then,  and  he  was  appeased  to  the  extent  of 
forgetting  most  of  his  troubles  in  a  square  meal. 
That  quiet  day  with  the  white  perch,  ending  as  it 
did  with  a  grand  finale,  remains  one  of  my  fondest 
memories. 


225 


Chapter  Ctoentp=fttoe 

You   may   pick  your  place — you   may   choose   your 
hour — 

You  may  put  on  your  choicest  flies; 
But  never  yet  was  it  safe  to  bet 

That  a  single  trout  would  rise. 


CJmpter  Ctoentp=fibe 

BACK   across   Tupper   Lake   and   down   Sand 
Brook  to  the  Shelburne.     Eddie  left  the  fur 
ther  wilderness  with  a  sigh,  for  he  felt  that 
his  chance  of  getting  a  moose  calf  for  those  museum 
people  was  getting  slim.     A  distance — I  have  for 
gotten   the   number   of   miles — down   the   Shelburne 
would  bring  us  to  country  known  to  the  guides  and 
not  remote  enough   for  moose  at  this   season.     As 
Eddie  is  no  longer  in  this  country,  I  may  confess, 
now,  that  I  was  glad. 

It  was  beautiful  going,  down  Sand  Brook.  There 
was  plenty  of  water  and  the  day  was  perfect.  There 
is  nothing  lovelier  in  the  world  than  that  little  limpid 
stream  with  its  pebbly  riffles  and  its  sunlit  pools. 
Sometimes  when  I  think  of  it  now  I  am  afraid  that 
it  is  no  longer  there  in  that  far  still  Arcady,  or  that 
it  may  vanish  through  some  enchantment  before  I  can 
ever  reach  it  again.  Indeed  as  I  am  writing  here 
to-day  I  am  wondering  if  it  is  really  there — hidden 
away  in  that  quiet  unvisited  place,  when  no  one  is 
there  to  see  it,  and  to  hear  it  sing  and  whisper — if 
anything  is  anywhere,  unless  some  one  is  there  to  see 
and  hear.  But  these  are  deep  waters.  I  am  prone  to 

229 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


stumble,  as  we  have  seen,  and  somehow  my  tallest 
waders  never  take  me  through. 

I  have  already  said,  and  repeated,  I  think,  that 
there  is  no  better  trout  fishing  than  in  the  Shelburne. 
The  fish  now  were  not  quite  so  heavy  as  they  had  been 
higher  up,  but  they  were  very  many.  The  last  half 
of  the  miracle  of  the  loaves  and  fishes  would  not  have 
been  necessary  here  had  the  multitudes  been  given 
some  tackle  and  a  few  cans  of  bait.  When  we  were  a 
little  above  Kempton  Dam,  Del  pointed  out  the  first 
place  familiar  to  him.  The  woods  were  precisely 
the  same — the  waters  just  as  fair  and  fruitful — the 
locality  just  as  wild;  but  somehow  as  we  rounded 
that  bend  a  certain  breath  of  charm  vanished.  The 
spell  of  perfect  isolation  was  gone.  I  had  the  feeling 
that  we  had  emerged  from  the  enchanted  borders  of 
No  Man's  Land — that  we  were  entering  a  land  of 
real  places,  with  the  haunts  and  habitations  of 
men. 

Kempton  Dam  itself  had  been  used  to  catch  logs, 
not  so  long  ago,  and  Eddie  had  visited  it  on  a  previous 
occasion.  He  still  had  a  fond  memory  of  a  very 
large  trout — opinions  differed  a  trifle  as  to  its  exact 
size — which  he  had  taken  there  in  a  certain  pool  of 
golden  water,  and  it  was  evident  from  his  talk  that 
he  expected  to  take  that  trout  again,  or  some  member 
of  its  family,  or  its  ghost,  maybe,  immediately  upon 
arrival. 

It  certainly  proved  an  attractive  place,  and  there 
230 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


were  any  number  of  fish.  They  were  not  especially 
large,  however.  Even  the  golden  water  was  fruitful 
only  as  to  numbers.  We  waded  among  the  rocks  or 
stood  on  the  logs,  and  cast  and  reeled  and  netted  and 
returned  fish  to  the  water  until  we  were  fairly  sur 
feited.  By  that  time  the  guides  had  the  camp  ready, 
and  as  it  was  still  early  we  gave  them  the  rods  and 
watched  the  sport. 

Now  a  fly-casting  tournament  at  home  is  a  tame 
entertainment  when  one  has  watched  the  fishing  of 
Nova  Scotia  guides.  To  see  a  professional  send  a 
fly  sailing  out  a  hundred  feet  or  so  in  Madison  Square 
Garden  is  well  enough,  and  it  is  a  meritorious  achieve 
ment,  no  doubt,  but  there  is  no  return  except  the 
record  and  the  applause.  To  see  Del  the  Stout  and 
Charles  the  Strong  doing  the  same  thing  from  that 
old  log  dam  was  a  poem,  a  picture,  an  inspiration. 
Above  and  below,  the  rushing  water;  overhead,  the 
blue  sky;  on  either  side,  the  green  of  June — the  tree- 
tops  full  of  the  setting  sun.  Out  over  the  foaming 
current,  skimming  just  above  the  surface,  the  flies 
would  go  sailing,  sailing — you  thought  they  would 
never  light.  They  did  not  go  with  a  swish  and  a 
jump,  but  seemed  noiselessly  to  drift  away,  as  if  the 
lightly  swinging  rod  had  little  to  do  with  the  matter, 
as  if  they  were  alive,  in  fact,  looking  for  a  place  to 
settle  in  some  cozy  nook  of  water  where  a  trout  would 
be  sure  to  lie.  And  the  trout  were  there.  It  was  not 
the  empty  tub-fishing  of  a  sportsman's  show.  The 

231 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


gleam  and  splash  in  the  pool  that  seemed  remote — 
that  was  perhaps  thirty  yards  away  in  fact — marked 
the  casting  limit,  and  the  sharp  curve  of  the  rod,  and 
the  play  to  land  were  more  inspiring  than  any  measure 
of  distance  or  clapping  of  hands. 

Charles  himself  became  so  inspired  at  length  with 
his  handsome  fishing  that  he  made  a  rash  statement. 
He  declared  that  he  could  take  five  trout  in  fifteen 
minutes.  He  offered  to  bet  a  dollar  that  he  could 
do  it.  I  rather  thought  he  could  myself,  for  the 
fish  were  there,  and  they  were  riot  running  over  large. 
Still,  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  land  them  in  that  swift 
water,  and  it  would  be  close  work.  The  show  would 
be  worth  a  dollar,  even  if  I  lost.  Wherefore,  I 
scoffed  at  his  boast  and  took  the  bet. 

No  stipulations  were  made  as  to  the  size  of  the 
trout,  nor  the  manner  in  which  they  should  be  taken, 
nor  as  to  any  special  locality.  It  was  evident  from 
our  guide's  preparation  that  he  had  evolved  certain 
ideas  of  his  own  in  the  matter.  Previously  he  had 
been  trying  to  hook  a  big  fish,  but  it  was  pretty  evi 
dent  that  he  did  not  want  any  big  fish  now.  There 
was  a  little  brook — a  run-around,  as  it  were — that 
left  the  main  water  just  below  the  dam  and  came  in 
again  at  the  big  pool  several  hundred  yards  below. 
We  had  none  of  us  touched  this  tumbling  bit  of  water. 
It  was  his  idea  that  it  would  be  full  of  little  trout. 
He  wanted  something  he  could  lift  out  with  no  unnec 
essary  delay,  for  time  that  is  likely  to  be  worth  over 

232 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


six  cents  a  minute  is  too  expensive  to  waste  in  fancy 
sportsmanship.  He  selected  a  short  rod  and  put  on 
some  tiny  flies.  Then  he  took  his  position;  we  got 
out  our  watches  and  called  time. 

Now,  of  course,  one  of  the  most  uncertain  things 
in  life  to  gamble  on  is  fishing.  You  may  pick  your 
place,  your  day  and  your  time  of  day.  The  combina 
tion  may  seem  perfect.  Yet  the  fact  remains  that 
you  can  never  count  with  certainty  on  the  result.  One 
might  suppose  that  our  guide  had  everything  in  his 
favor.  Up  to  the  very  moment  of  his  wager  he  had 
been  taking  trout  about  as  rapidly  as  he  could  handle 
them,  and  from  water  that  had  been  fished  more  or 
less  all  the  afternoon.  He  knew  the  particular  fly 
that  had  been  most  attractive  on  this  particular  day 
and  he  had  selected  a  place  hitherto  unfished — just 
the  sort  of  a  place  where  small  trout  seemed  likely  to 
abound.  With  his  skill  as  an  angler  it  would  not 
have  surprised  me  if  he  had  taken  his  five  trout  and 
had  more  than  half  the  time  to  spare. 

I  think  he  expected  to  do  that  himself.  I  think 
he  did,  for  he  went  at  it  with  that  smiling  sang  froid 
with  which  one  does  a  sleight  of  hand  trick  after  long 
practice.  He  did  not  show  any  appearance  of  haste 
in  making  his  first  cast,  but  let  the  flies  go  gently  out 
over  a  little  eddying  pool  and  lightly  skim  the  sur 
face  of  the  water,  as  if  he  were  merely  amusing 
himself  by  tantalizing  those  eager  little  trout.  Yet 
for  some  reason  nothing  happened.  Perhaps  the 

233 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


little  trout  were  attending  a  party  in  the  next  pool. 
There  came  no  lively  snap  at  those  twitching  flies — 
there  was  not  even  a  silver  break  on  the  surface  of 
the  water. 

I  thought  our  guide's  smile  faded  the  least  trifle, 
and  that  he  let  the  flies  go  a  bit  quicker  next  time. 
Then  when  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  happened 
again,  his  look  became  one  of  injured  surprise.  He 
abandoned  that  pool  and  stepping  a  rock  or  two  down 
stream,  sent  the  flies  with  a  sharp  little  flirt  into  the 
next — once — twice — it  was  strange — it  was  unac 
countable,  but  nothing — not  a  single  thing — hap 
pened  again.  It  was  the  same  with  the  next  pool,  and 
the  next. 

There  were  no  special  marks  of  self-confidence,  or 
anything  that  even  resembled  deliberation,  after  this. 
It  was  business,  strictly  business,  with  the  sole  idea 
of  taking  five  fish  out  of  that  run,  or  getting  down  to 
a  place  where  five  fish  could  be  had.  It  was  a  pretty 
desperate  situation,  for  it  was  a  steep  run  and  there 
was  no  going  back.  To  attempt  that  would  be  to 
waste  too  much  precious  time.  The  thing  to  do  was 
to  fish  it  straight  through,  with  no  unnecessary  delay. 
There  was  no  doubt  but  that  this  was  our  guide's 
programme.  The  way  he  deported  himself  showed 
that.  Perhaps  he  was  not  really  in  a  hurry — I  want 
to  be  just — but  he  acted  as  if  he  was.  I  have  never 
seen  a  straddle-bug,  but  if  I  ever  meet  one  I  shall 
recognize  him,  for  I  am  certain  he  will  look  exactly 

234 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


like  Charles  the  Strong  going  down  Tommy  Kemp- 
ton's  Run.  He  was  shod  in  his  shoepacks,  and  he 
seemed  to  me  to  have  one  foot  always  in  the  air  wildly 
reaching  out  for  the  next  rock — the  pair  of  flies, 
meanwhile,  describing  lightning  circles  over  every 
pool  and  riffle,  lingering  just  long  enough  to  prove 
the  futility  of  the  cast,  to  be  lying  an  instant  later 
in  a  new  spot,  several  yards  below.  If  ever  there 
is  a  tournament  f or  ( swift  and  accurate  fly-casting 
down  a  flight  of  rugged  stone  stairs  I  want  to  enter 
Charles  for  first  honors  against  the  world.  But  I 
would  not  bet  on  any  fish — I  want  that  stipulated. 
I  would  not  gamble  to  that  extent.  I  would  not 
gamble  even  on  one  fish  after  being  a  witness  to  our 
guide's  experience. 

That  was  a  mad  race.  The  rest  of  us  kept  a  little 
to  one  side,  out  of  his  way,  and  not  even  Del  and 
Eddie  could  keep  up  with  him.  And  with  all  that 
wild  effort  not  a  fish  would  rise — nor  even  break 
water.  It  was  strange — it  was  past  believing — I 
suppose  it  was  even  funny.  It  must  have  been,  for  I 
seem  to  recall  that  we  fairly  whooped  our  joy  at  his 
acrobatic  eagerness.  Why,  with  such  gymnastics, 
Charles  did  not  break  his  neck  I  cannot  imagine. 
With  the  utmost  watchfulness  I  barely  missed  break 
ing  mine  as  much  as  a  dozen  times. 

The  time  was  more  than  half-expired  when  we 
reached  the  foot  of  the  run,  and  still  no  fish,  not 
even  a  rise.  Yet  the  game  was  not  over.  It  was 

235 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


supposable  that  this  might  be  the  place  of  places  for 
fish.  Five  fish  in  five  minutes  were  still  possible,  if 
small.  The  guide  leaped  and  waded  to  a  smooth, 
commanding  stone  and  cast — once — twice,  out  over 
the  twisting  water.  Then,  suddenly,  almost  in  front 
of  him,  it  seemed,  a  great  wave  rolled  up  from  the 
depths — there  was  a  swish  and  a  quick  curving  of 
the  rod — a  monstrous  commotion,  and  a  struggle  in 
the  water.  It  was  a  king  of  fish,  we  could  all  see 
that,  and  the  rest  of  us  gave  a  shout  of  approval. 

But  if  Charles  was  happy,  he  did  not  look  it.  In 
fact,  I  have  never  seen  any  one  act  so  unappreciative 
of  a  big  fish,  nor  handle  it  in  so  unsportsmanlike  a 
manner.  If  I  remember  his  remark  it  had  "  damn  " 
and  "  hell  "  mixed  up  in  it,  and  these  words  were 
used  in  close  association  with  that  beautiful  trout. 
His  actions  were  even  worse.  He  made  no  effort  to 
play  his  catch — to  work  him  gradually  to  the  net, 
according  to  the  best  form.  Nothing  of  the  kind. 
You'd  have  supposed  our  guide  had  never  seen  a  big 
trout  before  by  the  way  he  got  hold  of  that  line  and 
yanked  him  in,  hand  over  hand,  regardless  of  the 
danger  to  line  and  leader  and  to  those  delicate  little 
flies,  to  say  nothing  of  the  possibility  of  losing  a  fish 
so  handled.  Of  course  the  seconds  were  flying,  and 
landing  a  fish  of  that  size  is  not  an  especially  quick 
process.  A  three-pound  trout  in  swift  water  has  a 
way  of  staying  there,  even  when  taken  by  the  main 
strength  and  awkwardness  system.  When  only  about 

236 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


a  yard  of  line  remained  between  Charlie  and  the  fish, 
the  latter  set  up  such  a  commotion,  and  cut  up  such 
a  series  of  antics,  that  it  was  impossible  for  one  man 
to  hold  him  and  net  him,  though  the  wild  effort  which 
our  guide  made  to  do  so  seemed  amusing  to  those  who 
were  looking  on.  In  fact,  if  I  had  not  been  weak 
with  laughing  I  might  have  gone  to  his  rescue  sooner. 
One  may  be  generous  to  a  defeated  opponent,  and  the 
time  limit  was  on  its  last  minute  now.  As  it  was,  I 
waded  over  presently  and  took  the  net.  A  moment 
later  we  had  him — the  single  return  in  the  allotted 
time,  but  by  all  odds  the  largest  trout  thus  far  of  the 
expedition.  You  see,  as  I  have  said,  fish  are  uncer 
tain  things  to  gamble  on.  Trying  for  five  small  ones 
our  fisherman  captured  one  large  fish,  which  at  any 
other  moment  of  the  expedition  would  have  been 
more  welcome.  Yet  even  he  was  an  uncertain 
quantity,  for  big,  strong  and  active  as  he  was,  he 
suddenly  gave  a  great  leap  out  of  the  net  and  was 
back  in  the  water  again.  Still,  I  let  him  be  counted. 
That  was  generous. 

You  might  have  supposed  after  that  demonstration, 
Eddie  would  have  been  somewhat  reticent  about  back 
ing  his  skill  as  a  fisherman.  But  he  wasn't.  He  had 
just  as  much  faith  in  his  angling,  and  in  his  ability 
to  pick  good  water  as  if  he  hadn't  seen  his  guide  go 
down  to  ignominy  and  defeat.  He  knew  a  place 
just  above  the  dam,  he  said,  where  he  could  make 
that  bet  good.  Would  I  give  him  the  same  terms? 

237 


It  was  worth  the  dollar  to  watch  the  way  he  sought  to  wheedle  and 
coax  and  fascinate  those  trout." 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


I  would — the  offer  was  open  to  all  comers.  I  said 
it  was  taking  candy  from  children. 

We  went  up  to  Eddie's  place  and  got  out  the 
watches.  Eddie  had  learned  something  from  his 
guide's  exhibition.  He  had  learned  not  to  prance 
about  over  a  lot  of  water,  and  not  to  seem  to  be 
in  a  hurry.  It  was  such  things  that  invited  mirth. 
He  took  his  position  carefully  between  two  great 
bowlders  and  during  the  next  fifteen  minutes  gave  us 
the  most  charming  exhibition  of  light  and  delicate  fly- 
casting  I  have  ever  witnessed.  It  was  worth  the 
dollar  to  watch  the  way  in  which  he  sought  to  wheedle 
and  coax  and  fascinate  those  trout,  and  to  study  the 
deft  dispatch  and  grace  with  which  he  landed  a  fish, 
once  hooked.  Still  he  hadn't  learned  quite  enough. 
He  hadn't  learned  to  take  five  trout  in  fifteen  minutes 
in  that  particular  place  and  on  that  particular  evening. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  little  late  when  he  began.  Perhaps 
fifteen  minutes  is  a  shorter  period  than  it  sometimes 
seems.  Three  trout  completed  his  score  at  the  end 
of  the  allotted  time — all  fairly  large. 

Yet  I  must  not  fail  to  add  here  that  a  few  days 
later,  in  other  water,  both  Eddie  and  his  guide  made 
good  their  wager.  Each  took  his  five  trout — small 
ones — in  fifteen  minutes,  and  had  time  to  spare.  As 
I  have  remarked  once  or  twice  already,  one  of  the 
most  uncertain  things  in  life  to  gamble  on  is  fishing. 


239 


Cfmpter  ®toentp=stx 

Oh,  the  waves  they  pitch  and  the  waves  they  toss, 

And  the  waves  they  frighten  me; 
And  if  ever  I  get  my  boat  across 

I'll  go  no  more  to  sea. 


Chapter 

WE  were  met  by  a  surprise  at  our  camp.  Two 
men  sat  there,  real  men,  the  first  we  had 
seen  since  we  entered  the  wilderness.  Evi 
dently  they  were  natives  by  their  look — trappers  or 
prospectors  of  some  sort.  They  turned  out  to  be  bear 
hunters,  and  they  looked  rather  hungrily  at  the  assort 
ment  of  fish  we  had  brought  in — enough  for  supper 
and  breakfast.  Perhaps  they  had  not  been  to  fish 
so  frequently  as  to  bear.  I  believe  they  were  without 
tackle,  or  maybe  their  luck  had  been  poor — I  do  not 
remember.  At  all  events  it  developed  presently  that 
they  needed  fish,  also  that  they  had  a  surplus  of 
butter  of  a  more  recent  period  than  the  little  dab  we 
had  left.  They  were  willing  to  dicker — a  circum 
stance  that  filled  us  with  an  enthusiasm  which  we 
restrained  with  difficulty.  In  fact,  Del  did  not 
restrain  his  quite  enough.  He  promptly  offered  them 
all  the  fish  we  had  brought  in  for  their  extra  pound 
of  butter,  when  we  could  just  as  easily  have  got  it 
for  half  the  number  of  fish.  Of  course  the  fish  did 
not  seem  especially  valuable  to  us,  and  we  were  will 
ing  enough  to  make  a  meal  without  them.  Still,  one 
can  never  tell  what  will  happen,  and  something  like 
six  dollars'  worth  of  trout — reckoned  by  New  York 

243 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


prices — seems  an  unnecessary  sum  to  pay  for  a  pound 
of  butter,  even  in  the  Nova  Scotia  woods,  though 
possibly  trout  will  never  be  worth  quite  that  much 
there. 

All  the  same,  the  price  had  advanced  a  good  deal 
by  next  morning,  for  the  wind  had  shifted  to  the 
northeast  and  it  was  bleak  and  blustery.  Everybody 
knows  the  old  rhyme  about  the  winds  and  the  fish — 
how,  when  the  winds  are  north  or  east,  the  "  fish  bite 
least,"  and  how,  when  the  winds  are  south  and  west, 
the  "  fish  bite  best."  There  isn't  much  poetry  in  the 
old  rhyme,  but  it's  charged  with  sterling  truth.  Just 
why  a  northerly  or  easterly  wind  will  take  away  a 
fish's  appetite,  I  think  has  never  been  explained,  or 
why  a  southerly  and  westerly  wind  will  start  him  out 
hunting  for  food.  But  it's  all  as  true  as  scripture.  I 
have  seen  trout  stop  rising  with  a  shifting  of  the  wind 
to  the  eastward  as  suddenly  as  if  they  had  been 
summoned  to  judgment,  and  I  have  seen  them  begin 
after  a  cold  spell  almost  before  the  wind  had  time  to 
get  settled  in  its  new  quarter.  Of  course  it  had  been 
Del's  idea  that  we  could  easily  get  trout  enough  for 
breakfast.  That  was  another  mistake — we  couldn't. 
We  couldn't  take  them  from  the  river,  and  we  couldn't 
take  them  from  our  bear  hunters,  for  they  had  gone. 
We  whipped  our  lines  around  in  that  chill  wind, 
tangled  our  flies  in  treetops,  endangered  our  immortal 
souls,  and  went  back  to  the  tents  at  last  without  a 
single  thing  but  our  appetites.  Then  we  took  turns 

244 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


abusing  Del  for  his  disastrous  dicker  by  which  he  had 
paid  no  less  than  five  dollars  and  seventy-five  cents  a 
pound  too  much  for  butter,  New  York  market 
schedule.  Our  appetites  were  not  especially  for  trout 
— only  for  hearty  food  of  some  kind,  and  as  I  have 
said  before,  we  had  reached  a  place  where  fish  had 
become  our  real  staple.  The  conditions  were  particu 
larly  hard  on  Del  himself,  for  he  is  a  hearty  man, 
and  next  to  jars  of  marmalade,  baskets  of  trout  are 
his  favorite  forage. 

In  fact,  we  rather  lost  interest  in  our  camp,  and 
disagreeable  as  it  was,  we  decided  to  drop  down  the 
river  to  Lake  Rossignol  and  cross  over  to  the  mouth 
of  the  Liverpool.  It  was  a  long  six-mile  ferriage 
across  Rossignol  and  we  could  devote  our  waste  time 
to  getting  over.  By  the  end  of  the  trip  the  weather 
might  change. 

The  Shelburne  is  rough  below  Kempton  Dam.  It 
goes  tearing  and  foaming  in  and  out  among  the  black 
rocks,  and  there  are  places  where  you  have  to  get  out 
of  the  canoes  and  climb  over,  and  the  rocks  are  slip 
pery  and  sometimes  there  is  not  much  to  catch  hold 
of.  We  shot  out  into  the  lake  at  last,  and  I  was  glad. 
It  was  a  mistake,  however,  to  be  glad  just  then.  It 
was  too  soon.  The  wind  had  kicked  up  a  good  deal 
of  water,  and  though  our  canoes  were  lighter  than 
when  we  started,  I  did  not  consider  them  suited  to 
such  a  sea.  They  pitched  about  and  leaped  up  into  the 
air,  one  minute  with  the  bow  entirely  out  of  water, 

245 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


and  the  next  with  it  half-buried  in  the  billow  ahead. 
Every  other  second  a  big  wave  ran  on  a  level  with  the 
gunwale,  and  crested  its  neck  and  looked  over  and 
hissed,  and  sometimes  it  spilled  in  upon  us.  It  would 
not  take  much  of  that  kind  of  freight  to  make  a 
cargo,  and  anything  like  an  accident  in  that  wide, 
gray  billowy  place  was  not  a  nice  thing  to  contemplate. 
A  loaded  canoe  would  go  down  like  a  bullet.  No  one 
clad  as  we  were  could  swim  more  than  a  boat's  length 
in  that  sea. 

As  we  got  farther  off  shore  the  waves  got  worse. 
If  somebody  had  just  suggested  it  I  should  have  been 
willing  to  turn  around  and  make  back  for  the  Shel- 
burne.  Nobody  suggested  it,  and  we  went  on.  It 
seemed  to  me  those  far,  dim  shores  through  the  mist, 
five  miles  or  more  away,  would  never  get  any  closer. 
I  grew  tired,  too,  and  my  arms  ached,  but  I  could  not 
stop  paddling.  I  was  filled  with  the  idea  that  if  I 
ever  stopped  that  eternal  dabbing  at  the  water,  my 
end  of  the  canoe  would  never  ride  the  next  billow. 
Del  reflected  aloud,  now  and  then,  that  we  had  made 
a  mistake  to  come  out  on  such  a  day.  When  I  looked 
over  at  the  other  canoe  and  saw  it  on  the  top  of  a 
big  wave  with  both  ends  sticking  out  in  the  air,  and 
then  saw  it  go  down  in  a  trough  of  black,  ugly  water, 
I  realized  that  Del  was  right.  I  knew  our  canoe  was 
doing  just  such  dangerous  things  as  that,  and  I  would 
have  given  any  reasonable  sum  for  an  adequate  life 
preserver,  or  even  a  handy  pine  plank — for  anything, 

246 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


in  fact,  that  was  rather  more  certain  to  stay  on  top 
of  the  water  than  this  billow-bobbing,  birch-bark  pea 
nut  shell  of  a  canoe. 

I  suppose  I  became  unduly  happy,  therefore,  when 
at  last  we  entered  the  mouth  of  the  Liverpool.  I 
was  so  glad  that  I  grew  gay,  and  when  we  started  up 
the  rapids  I  gave  Del  a  good  lift  here  and  there 
by  pushing  back  against  the  rocks  with  my  paddle, 
throwing  my  whole  weight  on  it  sometimes,  to  send 
the  canoe  up  in  style.  It  is  always  unwise  for  me  to 
have  a  gay  reaction  like  that,  especially  on  Friday, 
which  is  my  unlucky  day.  Something  is  so  liable  to 
happen.  We  were  going  up  a  particularly  steep  piece 
of  water  when  I  got  my  paddle  against  a  stone  on  the 
bottom  and  gave  an  exceptionally  strong  push.  I 
don't  know  just  what  happened  next.  Perhaps  my 
paddle  slipped.  Del  says  it  did.  I  know  I  heard 
him  give  a  whoop,  and  I  saw  the  river  coming  straight 
up  at  me.  Then  it  came  pouring  in  over  the  side, 
and  in  about  a  minute  more  most  of  our  things  were 
floating  downstream,  with  Del  grabbing  at  them,  and 
me  clinging  to  the  upset  canoe,  trying  to  drag  it 
ashore. 

We  camped  there.  It  was  a  good  place,  one  of 
the  best  yet  selected.  Still,  I  do  not  recommend 
selecting  a  camp  in  that  way.  If  it  did  not  turn  out 
well,  it  might  be  a  poor  place  to  get  things  dry.  One 
needs  to  get  a  good  many  things  dry  after  a  selection 
like  that,  especially  on  a  cold  day.  It  was  a  cold 

247 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


night,  too.  I  dried  my  under  things  and  put  them 
all  on. 

"  Did  you  ever  sleep  in  your  clothes  in  the 
woods?  "  I  have  been  asked. 

I  did.  I  put  on  every  dry  thing  I  had  that  night, 
and  regretted  I  had  left  anything  at  home. 


248 


Chapter 


It  is  better  to  let  the  wild  beast  run, 
And  to  let  the  wild  bird  fly: 

Each  harbors  best  in  his  native  nest, 
Even  as  you  and  I. 


Cfmpter  ®toentp=getoen 

PERHAPS  it  was  the  cold  weather  that  brought 
us  a  visitor.  There  was  a  tree  directly  over 
our  tent,  and  in  the  morning — a  sharp  sunny 
morning,  with  the  wind  where  it  should  be,  in  the 
west — we  noticed  on  going  out  that  a  peculiar  sort 
of  fruit  had  grown  on  this  tree  over  night.  On  one 
of  the  limbs  just  above  the  tent  was  a  prickly  looking 
ball,  like  a  chestnut  burr,  only  black,  and  about  a 
hundred  times  as  big.  It  was  a  baby  porcupine,  who 
perhaps  had  set  out  to  see  the  world  on  his  own 
account — a  sort  of  prodigal  who  had  found  himself 
without  funds,  and  helpless,  on  a  cold  night.  No 
doubt  he  climbed  up  there  to  look  us  over,  with  a 
view  of  picking  out  a  good  place  for  himself;  possibly 
with  the  hope  of  being  invited  to  breakfast. 

Eddie  was  delighted  with  our  new  guest.  He 
declared  that  he  would  take  him  home  alive,  and  feed 
him  and  care  for  him,  and  live  happy  ever  after.  He 
got  a  pole  and  shook  our  visitor  down  in  a  basket,  and 
did  a  war-dance  of  joy  over  his  new  possession.  He 
was  a  cute  little  fellow — the  "  piggypine  "  (another 
of  Eddie's  absurd  names) — with  bright  little  eyes 
and  certain  areas  of  fur,  but  I  didn't  fancy  him  as  a 
pet.  He  seemed  to  me  rather  too  much  of  a  cross 

251 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


between  a  rat  and  a  pin  cushion  to  be  a  pleasant  com 
panion  in  the  intimate  relations  of  one's  household. 
I  suspected  that  if  in  a  perfectly  wild  state  he  had 
been  prompted  to  seek  human  companionship  and  the 
comforts  of  civilized  life,  in  a  domestic  atmosphere 
he  would  want  to  sit  at  the  table  and  sleep  with  some 
body.  I  did  not  believe  Eddie's  affection  would  sur 
vive  these  familiarities.  I  knew  how  surprised  and 
annoyed  he  might  be  some  night  to  roll  over  suddenly 
on  the  piggypine  and  then  have  to  sit  up  the  rest  of 
the  night  while  a  surgeon  removed  the  quills.  I  said 
that  I  did  not  believe  in  taming  wild  creatures,  and  I 
think  the  guides  were  with  me  in  this  opinion.  I  think 
so  because  they  recited  two  instances  while  we  were 
at  breakfast.  DePs  story  was  of  some  pet  gulls  he 
once  owned.  He  told  it  in  that  serious  way  which 
convinced  me  of  its  truth.  Certain  phases  of  the  nar 
rative  may  have  impressed  me  as  being  humorous, 
but  it  was  clear  they  were  not  so  regarded  by  Del. 
His  manner  was  that  of  one  who  records  history.  He 
said: 

"  One  of  the  children  caught  two  young  gulls  once, 
in  the  lake,  and  brought  them  to  the  house  and  said 
they  were  going  to  tame  them.  I  didn't  think  they 
would  live,  but  they  did.  You  couldn't  have  killed 
them  without  an  ax.  They  got  tame  right  away,  and 
they  were  all  over  the  house,  under  foot  and  into 
everything,  making  all  kinds  of  trouble.  But  that 
wasn't  the  worst — the  worst  was  feeding  them.  It 

252 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


wasn't  so  bad  when  they  were  little,  but  they  grew 
to  beat  anything.  Then  it  began  to  keep  us  moving 
to  get  enough  for  them  to  eat.  They  lived  on  fish, 
mostly,  and  at  first  the  children  thought  it  fun  to  feed 
them.  They  used  to  bait  a  little  dip  net  and  catch 
minnows  for  the  gulls,  and  the  gulls  got  so  they 
would  follow  anybody  that  started  out  with  that  dip 
net,  calling  and  squealing  like  a  pair  of  pigs.  But 
they  were  worse  than  pigs.  You  can  fill  up  a  pig  and 
he  will  go  to  sleep,  but  you  never  could  fill  up  those 
gulls.  By  and  by  the  children  got  tired  of  trying 
to  do  it  and  gave  me  the  job.  I  made  a  big  dip  net 
and  kept  it  set  day  and  night,  and  every  few  minutes 
all  day  and  the  last  thing  before  bedtime  I'd  go  down 
and  lift  out  about  a  pailful  of  fish  for  those  gulls, 
and  they'd  eat  until  the  fish  tails  stuck  out  of  their 
mouths,  and  I  wouldn't  more  than  have  my  back 
turned  before  they'd  be  standing  on  the  shore  of  the 
lake,  looking  down  into  that  dip  net  and  hollering 
for  more.  I  got  so  I  couldn't  do  anything  but  catch 
fish  for  those  gulls.  It  was  a  busy  season,  too,  and 
besides  the  minnows  were  getting  scarce  along  the 
lake  front,  so  I  had  to  get  up  early  to  get  enough  to 
feed  them  and  the  rest  of  the  family.  I  said  at  last 
that  I  was  through  feeding  gulls.  I  told  the  children 
that  either  they'd  have  to  do  it,  or  that  the  gulls 
would  have  to  go  to  work  like  the  rest  of  the  family 
and  fish  for  themselves.  But  the  children  wouldn't 
do  it,  nor  the  gulls,  either.  Then  I  said  I  would 

253 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


take  those  birds  down  in  the  woods  and  leave  them 
somewhere.  I  did  that.  I  put  them  into  a  basket 
and  shut  them  in  tight  and  took  them  five  miles  down 
the  river  and  let  them  loose  in  a  good  place  where 
there  were  plenty  of  fish.  They  flew  off  and  I  went 
home.  When  I  got  to  the  house  they'd  been  there 
three  hours,  looking  at  the  dip  net  and  squalling,  and 
they  ate  a  pail  heaping  full  of  fish,  and  you  could  have 
put  both  gulls  into  the  pail  when  they  got  through. 
I  was  going  on  a  long  trip  with  a  party  next  morning, 
and  we  took  the  gulls  along.  We  fed  them  about 
a  bushel  of  trout  and  left  them  seventeen  miles  down 
the  river,  just  before  night,  and  drove  home  in  the 
dark.  I  didn't  think  the  gulls  would  find  their  way 
back  that  time,  but  they  did.  They  were  there  before 
daybreak,  fresh  and  hungry  as  ever.  Then  I. knew 
it  was  no  use.  The  ax  was  the  only  thing  that  would 
get  me  out  of  that  mess.  The  children  haven't 
brought  home  any  wild  pets  since." 

That  you  see  is  just  unembellished  history,  and 
convincing.  I  regret  that  I  cannot  say  as  much  for 
Charlie's  narrative.  It  is  a  likely  story  enough,  as 
such  things  go,  but  there  are  points  about  it  here 
and  there  which  seem  to  require  confirmation.  I  am 
told  that  it  is  a  story  well  known  and  often  repeated 
in  Nova  Scotia,  but  even  that  cannot  be  accepted  as 
evidence  of  its  entire  truth.  Being  a  fish-story  it 
would  seem  to  require  something  more.  This  is  the 
tale  as  Charlie  told  it. 

254 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


"  Once  there  was  a  half-breed  Indian,"  he  said, 
"  who  had  a  pet  trout  named  Tommy,  which  he  kept 
in  a  barrel.  But  the  trout  got  pretty  big  and  had  to 
have  the  water  changed  a  good  deal  to  keep  him 
alive.  The  Indian  was  too  lazy  to  do  that,  and  he 
thought  he  would  teach  the  trout  to  live  out  of  water. 
So  he  did.  He  commenced  by  taking  Tommy  out  of 
the  barrel  for  a  few  minutes  at  a  time,  pretty  often, 
and  then  he  took  him  out  oftener  and  kept  him  out 
longer,  and  by  and  by  Tommy  got  so  he  could  stay 
out  a  good  while  if  he  was  in  the  wet  grass.  Then 
the  Indian  found  he  could  leave  him  in  the  wet  grass 
all  night,  and  pretty  soon  that  trout  could  live  in  the 
shade  whether  the  grass  was  wet  or  not.  By  that 
time  he  had  got  pretty  tame,  too,  and  he  used  to 
follow  the  Indian  around  a  good  deal,  and  when  the 
Indian  would  go  out  to  dig  worms  for  him,  Tommy 
would  go  along  and  pick  up  the  worms  for  himself. 
The  Indian  thought  everything  of  that  fish,  and  when 
Tommy  got  so  he  didn't  need  water  at  all,  but  could 
go  anywhere — down  the  dusty  road  and  stay  all  day 
out  in  the  hot  sun — you  never  saw  the  Indian  without 
his  trout.  Show  people  wanted  to  buy  Tommy,  but 
the  Indian  said  he  wouldn't  sell  a  fish  like  that  for 
any  money.  You'd  see  him  coming  to  town  with 
Tommy  following  along  in  the  road  behind,  just  like 
a  dog,  only  of  course  it  traveled  a  good  deal  like  a 
snake,  and  most  as  fast. 

"*  Well,  it  was  pretty  sad  the  way  that  Indian  lost 

255 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


his  trout,  and  it  was  curious,  too.  He  started  for 
town  one  day  with  Tommy  coming  along  behind,  as 
usual.  There  was  a  bridge  in  the  road  and  when 
the  Indian  came  to  it  he  saw  there  was  a  plank  off, 
but  he  went  on  over  it  without  thinking.  By  and  by  he 
looked  around  for  Tommy  and  Tommy  wasn't  there. 
He  went  back  a  ways  and  called,  but  he  couldn't  see 
anything  of  his  pet.  Then  he  came  to  the  bridge  and 
saw  the  hole,  and  he  thought  right  away  that  maybe 
his  trout  had  got  in  there.  So  he  went  to  the  hole 
and  looked  down,  and  sure  enough,  there  was 
Tommy,  floating  on  the  water,  bottom-side  up.  He'd 
tumbled  through  that  hole  into  the  brook  and 
drowned." 

I  think  these  stories  impressed  Eddie  a  good  deal. 
I  know  they  did  me.  Even  if  Charlie's  story  was  not 
pure  fact  in  certain  minor  details,  its  moral  was  none 
the  less  evident.  I  saw  clearer  than  ever  that  it  is 
not  proper  to  take  wild  creatures  from  their  native 
element  and  make  pets  of  them.  Something  always 
happens  to  them  sooner  or  later.  We  were  through 
breakfast  and  Eddie  went  over  to  look  at  his  porcu 
pine.  He  had  left  it  in  a  basket,  well  covered  with 
a  number  of  things.  He  came  back  right  away — 
looking  a  little  blank  I  thought. 

"  He's  gone!  "  he  said.  "  The  basket's  just  as  I 
left  it,  all  covered  up,  but  he  isn't  in  it." 

We  went  over  to  look.  Sure  enough,  our  visitor 
had  set  out  on  new  adventures.  How  he  had  escaped 

256 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


was  a  mystery.  It  didn't  matter — both  he  and  Eddie 
were  better  off. 

But  that  was  a  day  for  animal  friends.  Where 
we  camped  for  luncheon,  Eddie  and  I  took  a  walk 
along  the  river  bank  and  suddenly  found  ourselves 
in  a  perfect  menagerie.  We  were  among  a  regular 
group  of  grown  porcupines — we  counted  five  of  them 
— and  at  the  same  time  there  were  two  blue  herons 
in  the  water,  close  by.  A  step  away  a  pair  of  part 
ridges  ran  through  the  brush  and  stood  looking  at 
us  from  a  fallen  log,  while  an  old  duck  and  her  young 
came  sailing  across  the  river.  We  were  nearing  civil 
ization  now,  but  evidently  these  creatures  were  not 
much  harassed.  It  was  like  the  Garden  of  Eden 
before  the  Fall.  It  is  true  the  old  duck  swam  away, 
calling  to  her  brood,  when  she  saw  us;  the  partridges 
presently  hid  in  the  brush,  and  the  blue  herons  waded 
a  bit  further  off.  But  the  porcupines  went  on  galumph 
ing  around  us,  and  none  of  the  collection  seemed 
much  disturbed.  During  the  afternoon  we  came  upon 
two  fishermen,  college  boys,  camping,  who  told  us 
they  had  seen  some  young  loons  in  a  nest  just  above, 
and  Eddie  was  promptly  seized  with  a  desire  to 
possess  them. 

In  fact  we  left  so  hastily  that  Del  forgot  his  extra 
paddle,  and  did  not  discover  the  loss  until  we  were  a 
half-mile  or  so  upstream.  Then  he  said  he  would 
leave  me  in  the  canoe  to  fish  and  would  walk  back 
along  the  shore.  An  arm  of  the  river  made  around 

257 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


an  island  just  there,  and  it  looked  like  a  good  place. 
There  seemed  to  be  not  much  current  in  the  water, 
and  I  thought  I  could  manage  the  canoe  in  such  a  spot 
and  fish,  too,  without  much  trouble. 

It  was  not  as  easy  as  it  looked.  Any  one  who 
has  tried  to  handle  a  canoe  from  the  front  end  with 
one  hand  and  fish  with  the  other  will  tell  you  so. 
I  couldn't  seem  to  keep  out  of  the  brush  along  the 
shore,  and  I  couldn't  get  near  some  brush  in  the 
middle  of  the  river  where  I  believed  there  were 
trout.  I  was  right  about  the  trout  being  there,  too. 
Eddie  proved  that  when  he  came  up  with  his  canoe. 
He  had  plenty  of  business  with  big  fellows  right 
away.  But  the  fact  didn't  do  me  any  good.  Just 
when  I  would  get  near  the  lucky  place  and  ready  to 
cast,  a  twitch  in  the  current  or  a  little  puff  of  wind 
would  get  hold  of  the  stern  of  my  craft,  which  rode 
up  out  of  the  water  high  and  light  like  a  sail,  and 
my  flies  would  land  in  some  bushes  along  the  bank, 
or  hang  in  a  treetop,  or  do  some  other  silly  thing 
which  was  entertaining  enough  to  Eddie  and  his 
guide,  apparently,  but  which  did  not  amuse  me. 
I  never  realized  before  what  a  crazy  thing  a 
canoe  can  be  when  you  want  it  to  do  something 
out  of  its  regular  line  of  work.  A  canoe  is  a 
good  sort  of  a  craft  in  its  place,  and  I  would  not 
wish  to  go  into  the  woods  without  one,  but  it  is  limited 
in  its  gifts,  very  limited.  It  can't  keep  its  balance 
with  any  degree  of  certainty  when  you  want  to  stand 

258 


"  I  never  realized  before  what  a  crazy  thing  a  canoe  can  be 
when  you  want  it  to  do  something  out  of  its  regular  line  of 
work." 

up  and  fish,  and  it  has  no  sort  of  notion  of  staying  in 
one  place,  unless  it's  hauled  out  on  the  bank.  If 
that  canoe  had  been  given  the  versatility  of  an  ordi 
nary  flat-bottomed  John-boat  I  could  have  got  along 
better  than  I  did.  I  said  as  much,  and  disparaged 
canoes  generally.  Eddie  declared  that  he  had  never 
heard  me  swear  with  such  talent  and  unreserve. 
He  encouraged  me  by  holding  up  each  fish  as  he 
caught  it  and  by  suggesting  that  I  come  over  there. 

259 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


He  knew  very  well  that  I  couldn't  get  there  in  a  thou 
sand  years.  Whenever  I  tried  to  do  it  that  fool  of  a 
canoe  shot  out  at  a  tangent  and  brought  up  nowhere. 
Finally  in  an  effort  to  reconstruct  my  rod  I  dropped 
a  joint  of  the  noibwood  overboard,  and  it  went  down 
in  about  four  hundred  feet  of  water.  Then  I  believe 
I  did  have  a  few  things  to  say.  I  was  surprised  at  my 
own  proficiency.  It  takes  a  crucial  moment  like  that 
to  develop  real  genius.  I  polished  off  the  situation 
and  I  trimmed  up  the  corners.  Possibly  a  touch  of 
sun  made  me  fluent,  for  it  was  hot  out  there,  though 
it  was  not  as  hot  as  a  place  I  told  them  about,  and  I 
dwelt  upon  its  fitness  as  a  permanent  abiding  place 
for  fishermen  in  general  and  for  themselves  in  par 
ticular.  When  I  was  through  and  empty  I  see-sawed 
over  to  the  bank  and  waited  for  Del.  I  believe  I  had 
a  feverish  hope  that  they  would  conclude  to  take  my 
advice,  and  that  I  should  never  see  their  canoe  and  its 
contents  again. 

There  are  always  compensations  for  those  who  suf 
fer  and  are  meek  in  spirit.  That  was  the  evening  I 
caught  the  big  fish,  the  fish  that  Eddie  would  have 
given  a  corner  of  his  immortal  soul  (if  he  has  a  soul, 
and  if  it  has  corners)  to  have  taken.  It  was  just 
below  a  big  fall — Loon  Lake  Falls  I  think  they  call 
it — and  we  were  going  to  camp  there.  Eddie  had 
taken  one  side  of  the  pool  and  I  the  other  and  neither 
of  us  had  caught  anything.  Eddie  was  just  landing, 
when  something  that  looked  big  and  important,  far 

260 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


down  the  swift  racing  current,  rose  to  what  I  had 
intended  as  my  last  cast.  I  had  the  little  four-ounce 
bamboo,  but  I  let  the  flies  go  down  there — the  fly, 
I  mean,  for  I  was  casting  with  one  (a  big  Silver 
Doctor) — and  the  King  was  there,  waiting.  He  took 
it  with  a  great  slop  and  carried  out  a  long  stretch  of 
line.  It  was  a  test  for  the  little  rod.  There  had  been 
unkind  remarks  about  the  tiny  bamboo  whip;  this 
was  to  be  justification;  a  big  trout  on  a  long  line,  in 
deep,  swift  water — the  combination  was  perfect. 
Battle  now,  ye  ruler  of  the  rapids!  Show  your 
timber  now,  thou  slender  wisp  of  silk  and  cane ! 

But  we  have  had  enough  of  fishing.  I  shall  not 
dwell  upon  the  details  of  that  contest.  I  may  say, 
however,  that  I  have  never  seen  Del  more  excited 
than  during  the  minutes — few  or  many,  I  do  not 
know  how  few  or  how  many — that  it  lasted.  Every 
guide  wants  his  canoe  to  beat,  and  it  was  evident  from 
the  first  that  this  was  the  trout  of  the  expedition.  I 
know  that  Del  believed  I  would  never  bring  that  fish 
to  the  canoe,  and  when  those  heavy  rushes  came  I 
was  harrassed  with  doubts  myself.  Then  little  by 
little  he  yielded.  When  at  last  he  was  over  in  the 
slower  water — out  of  the  main  channel — I  began  to 
have  faith. 

So  he  came  in,  slowly,  slowly,  and  as  he  was  drawn 
nearer  to  the  boat,  Del  seized  the  net  to  be  ready  for 
him.  But  I  took  the  net.  I  had  been  browbeaten 
and  humiliated  and  would  make  my  triumph  com- 

261 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


plete.  I  brought  him  to  the  very  side  of  the  boat, 
and  I  lifted  him  in.  This  time  the  big  fish  did  not 
get  away.  We  went  to  where  the  others  had  been 
watching,  and  I  stepped  out  and  tossed  him  carelessly 
on  the  ground,  as  if  it  were  but  an  everyday  occur 
rence.  Eddie  was  crushed.  I  no  longer  felt  bitter 
ness  toward  him. 

I  think  I  shall  not  give  the  weight  of  that  fish. 
As  already  stated,  no  one  can  tell  the  truth  con 
cerning  a  big  fish  the  first  trial,  while  more  than  one 
attempt  does  not  look  well  in  print,  and  is  apt  to  con 
fuse  the  reader.  Besides,  I  don't  think  Eddie's  scales 
were  right,  anyway. 


262 


Chapter  ®toentp=eisf)t 

Then  breathe  a  sigh  and  a  long  good-by 

To  the  wilderness,  to-day, 
For  back  again  to  the  trails  of  men 

Follows  the  waterway. 


Chapter  tEtoentp=eisf)t 

THROUGH  the  Eel-weir — a  long  and  fruit 
ful  rapid — we  entered  our  old  first  lake, 
Kedgeemakoogee,  this  time  from  another 
point.  We  had  made  an  irregular  loop  of  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  miles  or  more — a  loop  that  had 
extended  far  into  the  remoter  wilderness,  and  had 
been  marked  by  what,  to  me,  were  hard  ventures  and 
vicissitudes,  but  which,  viewed  in  the  concrete,  was 
recorded  in  my  soul  as  a  link  of  pure  happiness.  We 
were  not  to  go  home  immediately.  Kedgeemakoogee 
is  large  and  there  are  entering  streams,  at  the  mouth 
of  which  the  sport  at  this  season  was  good.  Besides, 
the  teams  that  were  to  come  for  us  would  not  be  due 
yet  for  several  days,  if  we  had  kept  proper  account 
of  time. 

It  was  above  the  Eel-weir,  at  George's  Run,  that 
Eddie  had  his  first  and  only  success  with  dry  flies. 
It  was  just  the  place — a  slow-moving  current  between 
two  islands,  with  many  vicious  and  hungry  trout. 
They  would  rise  to  the  ordinary  fly,  two  at  a  cast, 
and  when  Eddie  put  on  the  dry  fly — the  artificial 
miller  that  sits  upright  on  the  water  and  is  an  exact 
imitation  of  the  real  article — and  let  it  go  floating 
down,  they  snapped  it  up  eagerly.  It  is  beautiful 

265 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


fishing — I  should  really  have  liked  to  try  it  a  little. 
But  Eddie  had  been  good  to  me  in  so  many  ways :  I 
hadn't  the  heart  to  ask  him  for  one  of  his  precious 
dry  flies. 

During  our  trip  across  Kedgeemakoogee,  Del — 
inspired  perhaps  by  the  fact  that  we  were  getting 
nearer  to  the  walks  and  wiles  of  men — gave  me 
some  idea  of  Nova  Scotia  political  economies.  He 
explained  the  system  of  government  there,  the  manner 
of  voting  and  the  like.  The  representation  is  by 
districts,  of  course,  similar  to  our  own,  and  the  parties 
have  similar  methods  of  making  the  vote  of  these 
districts  count  on  the  right  side.  In  Queens,  for 
instance,  where  we  had  been  most,  if  not  all,  of  the 
time,  the  voters  are  very  scattering.  I  had  suspected 
this,  for  in  our  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles'  travel 
we  had  seen  but  two  natives,  and  only  one  of  these  was 
believed  to  have  political  residence.  Del  said  the 
district  had  been  gerrymandered  a  good  deal  to  make 
the  votes  count  right,  and  it  was  plain  enough  that 
if  this  man  was  the  only  voter  in  that  much  country, 
and  he  chasing  bears  most  of  the  time,  they  would 
have  to  gerrymander  around  a  good  deal  to  keep  up 
with  him.  Del  said  that  when  election  time  came  they 
would  go  gunning  for  that  voter  over  the  rocks  and 
through  the  burnt  timber,  and  would  beat  up  the 
brush  for  him  as  if  he  were  a  moose,  and  valuable. 
Somehow  politics  did  not  seem  to  belong  in  this  place, 
but  either  Del  exaggerated,  this  time,  or  there  is  a 

266 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


good  deal  of  it  to  the  individual.  I  suppose  it's  well 
to  have  it  condensed  in  that  way. 

We  camped  that  night  at  Jim  Charles's  Point,  our 
old  first  camp,  and  it  was  like  getting  home  after 
long  absence.  For  the  time  seemed  an  age  since  we 
had  left  there.  It  was  that.  Any  new  and  wonderful 
experience  is  long — as  long  as  eternity — whether  it 
be  a  day  or  a  decade  in  duration.  Next  morning, 
across  to  the  mouth  of  West  River — a  place  of  many 
fish  and  a  rocky  point  for  our  camp,  with  deep  beds 
of  sweet-fern,  but  no  trees.  That  rocky  open  was 
not  the  best  selection  for  tents.  Eddie  and  his  guide 
had  gone  up  the  river  a  little  way  when  a  sudden 
shower  came  up,  with  heavy  darkness  and  quick  wind. 
Del  and  I  were  stowing  a  few  things  inside  that  were 
likely  to  get  wet,  when  all  at  once  the  tents  became 
balloons  that  were  straining  at  their  guy  ropes,  and 
then  we  were  bracing  hard  and  clinging  fast  to  the 
poles  to  keep  everything  from  sailing  into  the  sky. 

It  was  a  savage  little  squall.  It  laid  the  bushes 
down  and  turned  the  lake  white  in  a  jiffy.  A  good 
thing  nobody  was  out  there,  under  that  black  sky. 
Then  the  wind  died  and  there  came  a  swish  of  rain — 
hard  rain  for  a  few  minutes.  After  that  the  sun  once 
more,  the  fragrance  of  the  fern  and  the  long,  sweet 
afternoon. 

Looking  at  those  deep  tides  of  sweet-fern,  I  had 
an  inspiration.  My  stretcher  had  never  been  over 
comfortable.  I  longed  to  sleep  flat.  Why  not  a 

267 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


couch  of  this  aromatic  balm?  It  was  dry  presently, 
and  spreading  the  canvas  strip  smoothly  on  the  ground 
I  covered  it  with  armfuls  of  the  fern,  evenly  laid.  I 
gathered  and  heaped  it  higher  until  it  rose  deep  and 
cushiony;  then  I  sank  down  upon  it  to  perfect  bliss. 
This  was  Arcady  indeed:  a  couch  as  soft  and  as 
fragrant  as  any  the  gods  might  have  spread  by  the 
brooks  of  Hymettus  in  that  far  time  when  they  stole 
out  of  Elysium  to  find  joy  in  the  daughters  of  men. 
Such  a  couch  Leda  might  have  had  when  the  swan 
came  floating  down  to  bestow  celestial  motherhood.  I 
buried  my  face  in  the  odorous  mass  and  vowed  that 
never  again  would  I  cramp  myself  in  a  canvas  trough 
between  two  sticks,  and  I  never  did.  I  could  not 
get  sweet-fern  again,  but  balsam  boughs  were  plenti 
ful,  and  properly  laid  in  a  manner  that  all  guides 
know,  make  a  couch  that  is  wide  and  yielding  and 
full  of  rest. 

Up  Little  River,  whose  stones  like  the  proverbial 
worm,  turned  when  we  stepped  on  them  and  gave 
Eddie  a  hard  fall;  across  Frozen  Ocean — a  place 
which  justified  its  name,  for  it  was  bitterly  cold  there 
and  we  did  nothing  but  keep  the  fire  going  and  play 
pedro  (to  which  end  I  put  on  most  of  my  clothes 
and  got  into  my  sleeping-bag) — through  another 
stream  and  a  string  of  ponds,  loitering  and  exploring 
until  the  final  day. 

It  was  on  one  reach  of  a  smaller  stream  that  we 
found  the  Beaver  Dam — the  only  one  I  ever  saw,  or 

268 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


am  likely  to  see,  for  the  race  that  builds  them  is  nearly 
done.  I  had  been  walking  upstream  and  fishing  some 
small  rapids  above  the  others  when  I  saw  what 
appeared  to  be  a  large  pool  of  still  water  just  above. 
I  made  my  way  up  there.  It  was  in  reality  a  long 
stillwater,  but  a  pond  rather  than  a  pool.  It  inter 
ested  me  very  much.  The  dam  was  unlike  any  I  had 
ever  seen.  For  one  thing,  I  could  not  understand  why 
a  dam  should  be  in  that  place,  for  there  was  no  sign 
of  a  sluice  or  other  indication  of  a  log  industry; 
besides,  this  dam  was  not  composed  of  logs  or  of 
stone,  or  anything  of  the  sort.  It  was  a  woven  dam — 
a  dam  composed  of  sticks  and  brush  and  rushes  and 
vines,  some  small  trees,  and  dirt — made  without  much 
design,  it  would  seem,  but  so  carefully  put  together 
and  so  firmly  bound  that  no  piece  of  it  could  work 
loose  or  be  torn  away.  I  was  wondering  what  people 
could  have  put  together  such  a  curious  and  effective 
thing  as  that,  when  Del  came  up,  pushing  the  canoe. 
He  also  was  interested  when  he  saw  it,  but  he  knew 
what  it  was.  It  was  a  beaver  dam,  and  they  were 
getting  mighty  scarce.  There  was  a  law  against 
killing  the  little  fellows,  but  their  pelts  were  worth 
high  prices,  and  the  law  did  not  cover  traffic  in  them. 
So  long  as  that  was  the  case  the  beavers  would  be 
killed. 

I  had  heard  of  beaver  dams  all  my  life,  but  some 
how  I  had  not  thought  of  their  being  like  this.  I 
had  not  thought  of  those  little  animals  being  able  to 

269 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


construct  a  piece  of  engineering  that,  in  a  swift  place 
like  this,  could  stand  freshet  and  rot,  year  after  year, 
and  never  break  away.  Del  said  he  had  never  known 
one  of  them  to  go  out.  The  outlet  was  in  the  right 
place  and  of  the  proper  size.  He  showed  me  some 
new  pieces  which  the  builders  had  recently  put  into 
the  work,  perhaps  because  it  seemed  to  be  weakening 
there.  He  had  watched  once  and  had  seen  some 
beavers  working.  They  were  as  intelligent  as  human 
beings.  They  could  cut  a  tree  of  considerable  size, 
he  said,  and  make  it  fall  in  any  chosen  direction. 
Then  he  showed  me  some  pieces  of  wood  from  which 
they  had  gnawed  the  sweet  bark,  and  he  explained 
how  they  cut  small  trees  and  sank  lengths  of  them  in 
the  water  to  keep  the  bark  green  and  fresh  for  future 
use.  I  listened  and  marveled.  I  suppose  I  had  read 
of  these  things,  but  they  seemed  more  wonderful 
when  I  was  face  to  face  with  the  fact. 

The  other  canoe  came  up  and  it  was  decided  to  cut 
a  small  section  out  of  the  dam  to  let  us  through.  I 
objected,  but  was  assured  that  the  beavers  were  not 
very  busy,  just  now,  and  would  not  mind — in  fact 
might  rather  enjoy — a  repair  job,  which  would  take 
them  but  a  brief  time. 

"  They  can  do  it  sometime  while  I'm  making  a 
long  carry,"  Charlie  said. 

But  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  cut  through.  Charlie 
and  Del  worked  with  the  ax,  and  dragged  and  pulled 
with  their  hands.  Finally  a  narrow  breach  was  made, 

270 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


but  it  would  have  been  about  as  easy  to  unload  the 
canoes  and  lift  them  over.  Half-way  up  the  long  hole 
we  came  to  the  lodge — its  top  rising  above  the  water. 
Its  entrance,  of  course,  was  below  the  surface,  but 
the  guides  said  there  is  always  a  hole  at  the  top, 
for  air.  It  was  a  well-built  house — better,  on  the 
whole,  than  many  humans  construct. 

"  They'll  be  scrambling  around,  pretty  soon," 
Charlie  said,  "  when  they  find  the  water  getting  lower 
in  their  sitting  room.  Then  they'll  send  out  a  repair 
gang.  Poor  little  fellers  !  Somebody'll  likely  get  'em 
before  we  come  again.  I  know  one  chap  that  got 
seven  last  year.  It's  too  bad." 

Yes,  it  is  too  bad.  Here  is  a  wonderful  race  of 
creatures — ingenious,  harmless — a  race  from  which 
man  doubtless  derived  his  early  lessons  in  constructive 
engineering.  Yet  Nova  Scotia  is  encouraging  their 
assassination  by  permitting  the  traffic  in  their  skins, 
while  she  salves  her  conscience  by  enacting  a  law 
against  their  open  slaughter.  Nova  Scotia  is  a  worthy 
province  and  means  well.  She  protects  her  moose 
and,  to  some  extent,  her  trout.  But  she  ought  to  do 
better  by  the  beavers.  They  are  among  her  most 
industrious  and  worthy  citizens.  Their  homes  and 
their  industries  should  be  protected.  Also,  their  skins. 
It  can't  be  done  under  the  present  law.  You  can't 
put  a  price  on  a  man's  head  and  keep  him  from  being 
shot,  even  if  it  is  against  the  law.  Some  fellow  will 
lay  for  him  sure.  He  will  sneak  up  and  shoot  him 

271 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


from  behind,  just  as  he  would  sneak  up  and  shoot  a 
beaver,  and  he  will  collect  his  reward  in  either  case, 
and  the  law  will  wink  at  him.  Maybe  it  would  be 
no  special  crime  to  shoot  the  man.  Most  likely  he 
deserved  it,  but  the  beaver  was  doing  nobody  any 
harm.  Long  ago  he  taught  men  how  to  build  their 
houses  and  their  dams,  and  to  save  up  food  and  water 
for  a  dry  time.  Even  if  we  no  longer  need  him, 
he  deserves  our  protection  and  our  tender  regard.* 

*I  have  just  learned  from  Eddie  that  Nova  Scotia  has  recently  enacted  a  new 
law,  adequately  protecting  the  beaver.  I  shall  leave  the  above,  however,  as 
applying  to  other  and  less  humane  districts,  wherever  located. 


272 


Chapter 

Once  more,  to-night,  the  woods  are  white 

That  lie  so  dim  and  far, 
Where  the  wild  trout  hide  and  the  moose  abide 

Under  the  northern  star. 


Chapter  Ctoentp=nme 

PERHAPS  the  brightest  spot  of  that  sad  period 
when  we  were  making  ready  to  leave  the 
woods,  with  all  their  comfort,  their  peace  and 
their  religion,  and  go  back  to  the  harrying  haunts  of 
men,  to  mingle  with  the  fever  and  fret  of  daily  strife, 
is  the  memory  of  a  trip  to  Jeremy's  Bay.  I  don't 
know  in  the  least  where  Jeremy's  Bay  is,  but  it  is 
somewhere  within  an  hour's  paddle  of  Jim  Charles's 
Point,  and  it  is  that  hour  and  the  return  that  sticks 
with  me  now. 

It  was  among  the  last  days  of  June — the  most 
wonderful  season  in  the  north  woods.  The  sun  seems 
never  ready  to  set  there,  then,  and  all  the  world  is 
made  of  blues  and  greens  and  the  long,  lingering  tones 
of  evening. 

We  had  early  tea  in  preparation  for  the  sunset 
fishing.  It  was  best,  Del  said,  in  Jeremy's  Bay  about 
that  time.  So  it  was  perhaps  an  hour  earlier  when  we 
started,  the  canoes  light. 

In  any  one  "life  there  are  not  many  evenings  such 
as  that.  It  is  just  as  well,  for  I  should  account  it  a 
permanent  sadness  if  they  became  monotonous.  Per 
haps  they  never  would.  Our  course  lay  between 

275 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


shores — an  island  on  the  one  hand,  the  mainland  on 
the  other.  When  we  rounded  the  point,  we  were  met 
by  a  breeze  blown  straight  from  the  sunset — a  breath 
that  was  wild  and  fresh  and  sweet,  and  billowed  the 
water  till  it  caught  every  hue  and  shimmering  irides 
cence  that  the  sky  and  shores  and  setting  sun  could 
give. 

We  were  eager  and  rested,  for  we  had  done  little 
that  day,  and  the  empty  canoes  slipped  like  magic 
into  a  magical  sea  of  amethyst  and  emerald  gold,  the 
fresh  breeze  filling  us  with  life  and  ecstasy  until  we 
seemed  almost  to  fly.  The  eyes  could  not  look  easily 
into  the  glory  ahead,  though  it  was  less  easy  to  look 
away  from  the  enchantment  which  lay  under  the  sun 
set.  The  Kingdom  of  Ponemah  was  there,  and  it  was 
as  if  we  were  following  Hiawatha  to  that  fair  and 
eternal  hunting-ground. 

Yet  when  one  did  turn,  the  transformation  was 
almost  worth  while.  The  colors  were  all  changed. 
They  were  more  peaceful,  more  like  reality,  less  like 
a  harbor  of  dreams  and  visions  too  fair  for  the  eyes 
of  man  to  look  upon.  A  single  glance  backward,  and 
then  away  once  more  between  walls  of  green,  billow 
ing  into  the  sunset — away,  away  to  Jeremy's  Bay ! 

The  sun  was  just  on  the  horizon  when  we  reached 
there — the  water  already  in  shadow  near  the  shore. 
So  deep  and  vivid  were  its  hues  that  we  seemed  to  be 
fishing  in  dye-stuff.  And  the  breeze  went  out  with 
the  sun,  and  the  painted  pool  became  still,  ruffled  only 

276 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


where  the  trout  broke  water  or  a  bird  dipped  down 
to  drink. 

I  will  not  speak  of  the  fishing  there.  I  have 
already  promised  that  I  would  not  speak  of  fishing 
again.  But  Jeremy's  Bay  is  a  spot  that  few  guides 
know  and  few  fishermen  find.  It  was  our  last  real 
fishing,  and  it  was  worthy.  Then  home  to  camp, 
between  walls  of  dusk — away,  away  from  Jeremy's 
Bay — silently  slipping  under  darkening  shores — 
silently,  and  a  little  sadly,  for  our  long  Day  of  Joy 
was  closing  in — the  hour  of  return  drew  near. 

And  postpone  it  as  you  will,  the  final  moment  must 
come — the  time  when  the  rod  must  be  taken  down 
for  good;  the  leaders  stripped  and  coiled  in  their 
box,  the  fly-book  tenderly  gone  over  and  the  last  flies 
you  have  used  fitted  into  place  and  laid  away. 

One  does  not  go  through  that  final  ritual  without 
a  little  sentiment — a  little  tugging  about  the  heart. 
The  flies  were  all  new  and  trim  and  properly  placed 
when  you  set  out.  They  were  a  gay  array  and  you 
were  as  proud  of  them  as  of  a  little  garden.  They  are 
in  disarray  now.  They  have  an  unkempt  look.  The 
snells  are  shredded,  the  feathers  are  caked  and  bitten, 
the  hackle  is  frazzled  and  frayed  out.  Yet  you  are 
even  more  proud  of  them  than  in  the  beginning.  Then 
they  were  only  a  promise,  fair  and  beautiful  to  look 
upon;  now  they  conjure  up  pictures  of  supreme  ful 
fillment — days  and  moments  so  firmly  set  upon  the 
past  that  they  shall  not  soon  fade  away.  That  big 

277 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


Silver  Doctor — from  which  the  snell  has  twice  been 
broken,  and  the  feathers  wrapped  and  rewrapped — 
that  must  have  been  wound  with  a  special  blessing, 
for  when  all  else  failed  it  was  a  certain  lure.  The  big 
trout  below  Loon  Lake  rose  to  that  fly,  and  accord 
ingly  this  battered  thing  will  forever  be  preserved. 
This  scarlet  Breck,  with  almost  every  gay  feather 
gone  and  the  silver  wrapping  replaced  with  tinfoil — 
even  when  it  displayed  a  mere  shred  of  its  former 
glory  it  proved  far  more  fatal  than  many  a  newer 
fly.  How  vividly  it  recalls  a  certain  wild  pool  of 
strange,  dim  lucence  where,  for  me,  the  trout  would 
take  no  other  lure.  And  this  Montreal — it  has 
become  a  magic  brush  that  paints  a  picture  of  black 
rocks  and  dark  water,  and  my  first  trout  taken  on  a 
cast.  For  a  hundred  years,  if  I  live  that  long,  this 
crumpled  book  and  these  broken,  worn-out  flies  will 
bring  back  the  clear,  wild  water  and  the  green  shores 
of  a  Nova  Scotia  June,  the  remoter  silences  of  the 
deeper  forest,  the  bright  camps  by  twisting  pools  and 
tumbling  falls,  the  flash  of  the  leaping  trout,  the  feel 
of  the  curved  rod  and  the  music  of  the  singing  reel. 
I  shall  always  recall  Eddie,  then,  and  I  shall  bless 
him  for  many  things — and  forgive  him  for  others. 
I  shall  remember  Del,  too,  the  Stout,  and  Charles  the 
Strong,  and  that  they  made  my  camping  worth  while. 
I  was  a  trial  to  them,  and  they  were  patient — almost 
unreasonably  so.  I  am  even  sorry  now  for  the  time 
that  my  gun  went  off  and  scarced  Del,  though  it 

278 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


seemed  amusing  at  the  moment.  When  the  wind 
beats  up  and  down  the  park,  and  the  trees  are  bend 
ing  and  cracking  with  ice;  when  I  know  that  once 
more  the  still  places  of  the  North  are  white  and  the 
waters  fettered — I  shall  shut  my  eyes  and  see  again 
the  ripple  and  the  toss  of  June,  and  hear  once  more 
the  under  voices  of  the  falls.  And  some  day  I  shall 
return  to  those  far  shores,  for  it  is  a  place  to  find  one's 
soul. 

Yet  perhaps  I  should  not  leave  that  statement 
unqualified,  for  it  depends  upon  the  sort  of  a  soul 
that  is  to  be  found.  The  north  wood  does  not  offer 
welcome  or  respond  readily  to  the  lover  of  conven 
tional  luxury  and  the  smaller  comforts  of  living. 
Luxury  is  there,  surely,  but  it  is  the  luxury  that 
rewards  effort,  and  privation,  and  toil.  It  is  the  com 
fort  of  food  and  warmth  and  dry  clothes  after  a  day 
of  endurance — a  day  of  wet,  and  dragging  weariness, 
and  bitter  chill.  It  is  the  bliss  of  reaching,  after  long, 
toilsome  travel,  a  place  where  you  can  meet  the 
trout — the  splendid,  full-grown  wild  trout,  in  his 
native  home,  knowing  that  you  will  not  find  a  picnic 
party  on  every  brook  and  a  fisherman  behind  every 
tree.  Finally,  it  is  the  preciousness  of  isolation,  the 
remoteness  from  men  who  dig  up  and  tear  down  and 
destroy,  who  set  whistles  to  tooting  and  bells  to 
jingling — who  shriek  themselves  hoarse  in  the  market 
place  and  make  the  world  ugly  and  discordant,  and 
life  a  short  and  fevered  span  in  which  the  soul  has 

279 


The   Tent  Dwellers 


a  chance  to  become  no  more  than  a  feeble  and  crum 
pled  thing.  And  if  that  kind  of  a  soul  pleases  you, 
don't  go  to  the  woods.  It  will  be  only  a  place  of 
mosquitoes,  and  general  wetness,  and  discomfort. 
You  won't  care  for  it.  You  will  hate  it.  But  if  you 
are  willing  to  get  wet  and  stay  wet — to  get  cold  and 
stay  cold — to  be  bruised,  and  scuffed,  and  bitten — to 
be  hungry  and  thirsty  and  to  have  your  muscles 
strained  and  sore  from  unusual  taxation:  if  you  will 
welcome  all  these  things,  not  once,  but  many  times, 
for  the  sake  of  moments  of  pure  triumph  and  that 
larger  luxury  which  comes  with  the  comfort  of  the 
camp  and  the  conquest  of  the  wilderness,  then  go! 
The  wilderness  will  welcome  you,  and  teach  you, 
and  take  you  to  its  heart.  And  you  will  find  your 
own  soul  there;  and  the  discovery  will  be  worth 
while ! 


THE  END 


280 


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